


Shatter Me

by JafndaegurDreki



Series: One Dragon Lost, One Dragon Found [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayl, Broken Promises, Bromance, Dragon!Bilbo, Fake Deaths, Friendship, Gandalf the Disturber of the Peace, Gen, Heartbreak, Irony, Secrets, Shapeshifting, broken secrets, dragon fights, dragon's want for gold, dwarf is friends with a dragon, more than one species of dragons, pulling a Sherlock, searching for oneself, the ring - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JafndaegurDreki/pseuds/JafndaegurDreki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fire Drakes of the North were not the only dragons of Middle Earth. There was another race, one much smaller; the Great Dragons. Few were born, and none existed after the dragon Smaug's rage when he attacked their kind in hopes to conquer them. Well, all of them perished except one. One who was hidden away by his kin in hopes that one day, their king might be able to restore their great race; to find the others that had hidden away as well. And he would've stayed hidden away his whole life too. Had it not been for an obnoxious wizard in a pointy hat with an unexpected adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue I

In the year of 2765, Third Age, a loud whooping roar resounded across the forest in loud repercussions. The two Dwarves that were hunting in the woods paused. The raven-haired one, who was dressed in robes of blue with a faint hints of light mithril armor looked to his much older companion.

"Did you hear that, Balin?" Thorin, age nineteen, asked nervously.

The light brown haired Dwarf looked nervously at the Prince of Durin's Folk.

"Aye, I did. And I have no idea what foul creature could've made such a cry." Balin answered, looking around the green foliage with suspicion.

Thorin gripped his sword tighter. "Then whatever it is, we shall fight it off."

"Don't be such a fool." Balin snapped, drawing his star-tipped mace. "We shall do no such thing; we will retreat further into the woods. We should be safer there."

"And if it is an Orc?" Thorin pressed, not at all finding his friend's suggestion appealing.

"No Orc would make a sound like _that_."

"Are you sure of this?"

"I've lived a bit longer than you, my Prince. I've seen a few Orcs in my time."

"You are only seventeen years older than me, Balin." Thorin griped.

The older Dwarf frowned, beginning to retreat further into the trees. "It makes all the difference _melhekith._ Wisdom comes with age."

"You're not even fifty yet!" Thorin roared indignantly.

"Thorin, do you really wish to argue about this?" Balin demanded.

The long bearded Dwarf gave Thorin a look that made him hush. Balin's eyes were as keen as ever, but there seemed to be a frantic attitude about them. His hands clutched his sword-mace tightly, his knuckles white. He kept backing into the foliage.

"Fine, we will retreat into the woods." The Durin Prince snapped bitterly, before adding. "Would it not be better, though, the see what it is? What if it poses as a threat to Erebor?"

Balin gave a deflated sigh. "Thorin, I was given one job today, protect you while we are hunting. Let us go."

With that the older turned around and ran deeper in to the woods. The raven haired Dwarf exhaled, frustrated, before following his friend. As he ran, he cast a hesitant look over his shoulder. The temptation to go and see what caused the noise was very, very high. Would it hurt to scout around? It would be very useful if they were to report…

"Don't think about it, Thorin." Balin said, coming up next to him. "We're too far from the mountain to warn anyone. At least a three hours' worth of travels."

"Mahal Balin!" Thorin shouted looking at his friend. "How can we sit and do nothing? We are Dwarves, we fight to the end."

"Yes, but, part of fighting is strategy. And if you do not know your enemy you cannot fight it well."

"Which is why we scout to know it better."

"Thorin."

"Balin, it would help Erebor."

The brown haired Dwarf stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Both your grandfather and father would kill me if I were to allow you to go close to whatever it was."

"What they do not know, won't kill them." Thorin grinned.

"I—"

**"You have more to fear than the weakling's father, Dwarf-scum!"**

Both Balin and Thorin looked up in alarm at the sight of the Orc. The longer bearded Dwarf pushed the Prince behind him, holding one arm out to keep him back and the other to keep his sword raised at the Orc.

"There is only one!" Thorin growled lowly from behind him. "You and I can easily take him."

The Orc gave a hideously twisted grin. **"There are more than one, weakling. Orcs hunt in numbers."**

Balin raised his mace to strike, only for a twisted arrow to strike it, knocking it from his hands. Now, as the two startled Dwarves looked up, Orcs circled around them. A couple of them were on Wargs, the others were obviously foot scouts. Thorin stepped up sword in hand.

"Fight us if you can, beasts." He dared, his deep voice reverberating in his chest.

For an Orc pack, it was a rather large one. They numbered in maybe less than thirty, five of them on Wargs, the others heavily armed. Even two Dwarves against this thirty—one not even completed in his training—would definitely be harmed in a fight such as this. And when Thorin voiced his challenge, the Orcs all grinned with blood thirsty glee.

**"Kill the Dwarf-scum and bring me their blood!"** Shrieked what seemed to be leader.

Thorin wasted no time when the first wave of Orcs charged. He used his sword just as he had been taught, slicing at the monster's arms and legs. But, these were creatures not so totally mindless. After about the fifth Orc had been felled they began to see Thorin's pattern, and changed tactics. Instead of a frontal approach, they began pressing in on his sides, giving him more than one to focus on.

Balin dove out of the way and scrambled for his sword. The rider Orcs set themselves after him. As soon as Balin's fingers closed around the hilt of the sword, a Warg's jaws closed around his ankle. The Dwarf cried out but did not lose his grip on the weapon. When the wolfish creature tossed him into the air, Balin raised his sword and slashed at the Warg's nose. The beast bucked back as the Dwarf continued his flight through the air. The other Warg Riders, turned towards him, as their helpless companion tried to hold onto its mount with all the strength that he could.

Balin stood and took a defensive position, eyeing each of the riders carefully. Calculations and strategies ran through his mind as he began to plot away to dislodge all the Orcs and kill the Wargs. But his mind was stopped from his planning as he heard a blood curdling scream. Balin spun around to see Thorin kneeling on the ground in pain. An Orc stood over him, a jeer on its gnarled face. Its sword skewered the raven haired Dwarf's shoulder, cutting close to his sternum.

"Thorin!" Balin yelled, only to feel pain explode across his chest.

The Warg that held the older Dwarf in its jaws bit down harder, bones crunching in its teeth. Balin screeched something unearthly as the monster tossed him into Thorin. The Dwarves fell into a pained heap of broken bones and bleeding flesh. The sword was still lodged in Thorin's shoulder and Balin's chest looked as if it had swelled.

**"Bring me their bones; bring me their skins; bring me their blood."** The head Orc snarled, his teeth showing as he grinned with the thought of fresh meat.

"Balin," Thorin gasped, "we have to get up!"

"I know…my Prince." The older hissed, but finding no energy to move his limbs.

"We…can…cannot die…here." Thorin urged, trying to get himself up.

Suddenly the Orcs were upon their pile. The ones that had clubs went first, whacking their bodies like rugs for a beating. Both Dwarves howled in pain; Thorin reached desperately for his sword Deathless, as Balin just tried to cover them both with his arms.

**"Die, filth, die!"** The Orcs yowled, pushing to ones with more brutal weapons to the front.

Thorin's blue eyes widened. Suddenly it dawned upon him. They were going…

…to die.

"ENOUGH!" A voice roared.

Balin and Thorin shivered, it was the same roar as earlier before. Whoever it was though, was also their savior, because the Orcs stopped immediately. They seemed hesitant, _afraid_ even. And then suddenly, a giant bronze tail came out of nowhere and slammed into the bodies of the Orcs. A body followed that tail, protectively standing over Thorin and Balin.

It was a _dragon._

The beautiful bronze dragon, with black horns and black smooth scales on its chest stood over the two Dwarves. Its large copper wings were folded back, forming curved canopies, while its tail swirled in front of Thorin and Balin.

"Now, cousin, now!" The dragon roared.

And there was a reply call. It shook the entire forest, the Orcs, and the Dwarves. Even the bronze dragon flinched at the sound. One of the Orcs howled and pointed to the sky.

" **Look to the skies!"**

Every creature that had been in the scrum looked up. There, diving down upon them was another dragon. But this one was so much more than the bronze one. It was about half a size larger, and its wings were in perfect ratio with its body size. The scales had a sheen like polished silver but glowed the colors of emeralds. It had gold scales that looked like plate armor that ran from its throat to the tip of its tail. The tail had large spikes that could be easily used for a club. The head of the dragon was adorned with long sharp spikes that jutted out from both sides, as well as large ears that blustered about in the wind.

The emerald dragon landed, a tremor was sent through the earth. Balin and Thorin stared at the creature in awe. The Orcs fell back a tad, before looking at the creature with snarls and leers. The dragon pulled his head up, its long neck arching and its wings folding. The creature hefted its hind haunches, drawing himself up into a defensive stance as well. The oddest thing though, were that its hind feet were out of proportion with the rest of its body, were covered with fur. Ridiculously large hind claws, matted with fur. The two Dwarves could not help but stare at the glittering creature.

It raised its head proudly, its gold horns gleaming.

"You leave now, monsters—and I will not kill you." The dragon snarled, its masculine voice rumbling angrily. "These Dwarves are under my protection."

The Orcs shuffled, unsure of what to do.

The leader snarled a challenge to the emerald dragon.

" **Bring me the lizard's wings and its horns."**

" **Then so be it!"** the dragon responded in Black Speech. **"Die, you fools!"**

Thorin and Balin's view of the dragon suddenly disappeared as their vision was filled with bronze. The dragon that had been standing above them had lowered itself to the ground and covered them with its wing. It poked its head under the skin of the wing.

"Don't worry," He whispered. "My cousin will take care of the Orcs."

And through the membrane, they could hear the Orcs yowling and screaming. The emerald dragon's furious cries varied from bellows to screeches. The bronze dragon squeezed its eyes shut at a particularly raw cry from his 'cousin'. Thorin's eyes widened and Balin nearly died of hyperventilation when the forest went quiet.

"It's quite alright." The other dragon shouted, "You can come out now."

The bronze canopy of the wing disappeared and the forest returned to the Dwarves' view. Dead Orcs and Wargs—a quite a few of them headless—littered the ground. The emerald dragon limped up to them, its furry hind claw lifted. The toes seemed to be smashed into the front of the foot, the brown fur was coat with blood.

"You Dwarves, are ridiculous." The emerald dragon chuckled with a hiss. "There were thirty of those Orcs! Thirty!"

The bronze one uncurled itself from its protective position.

"And I though Men were crazy."

"You defended us." Thorin stated bluntly.

The emerald dragon looked at him, its beautiful hazel reptilian eyes clashing with Thorin's icy blue.

"I should think so." The dragon huffed irately. "Otherwise, those blasted monsters would've very well had you."

"But why did you help us?" The Prince pressed. "You are a dragon."

"Thorin!" Balin wheezed in pain.

The emerald dragon ignored Thorin and looked at Balin with alarm. "Were you severely hurt?"

Balin nodded with a shudder.

"Draupneir, could attend to him? I will attend to the younger one." The emerald said.

The bronze dragon, Draupneir, nodded and lumbered towards Balin. The emerald limped closer to Thorin. He gestured his head to the sword in the Dwarf's shoulder.

"I can pull that out." He offered.

Thorin grimaced, before pulling at the pommel. "I can do it."

The emerald dragon nodded and watched as the young Prince pulled it out with a groan. He dropped the weapon immediately, as if it had burned him. His stocky body shuddered. The dragon was impressed with the young Dwarf's courage.

"What…are you…going to do…to Balin?" He demanded.

"The same I am going to do to you." The emerald dragon huffed. "Heal you."

Thorin's eyes widened. "Can…can you truly do that?"

"Umhm, so hold still, this might tickle." The dragon snorted.

It brought its head down close to the Dwarf's shoulder, eyeing the wound. Thorin watched the dragon stiffly as the creature flicked his tongue out, and carefully licked the wound. Thorin winced as the tongue touched the skin that had been revealed by his ripped shirt and armor.

"Sorry," the dragon mumbled, pulling his head back. "It's going to sting. But…it might be a tad grotesque, but dragon saliva is highly useful in medical uses."

"Really?" Thorin voiced shakily, not really understanding what was going on.

"Oh yes." The dragon purred.

Thorin looked down at his shoulder, surprised. Already the wound had begun to slowly seal. The skin itched and tingled as it barely crawled together. The dragon gave him a skeptical look.

"The smaller the wound, the longer it takes to heal." He informed. "I've no idea why it works like that but it does. It's actually quite frustrating."

Their attention was drawn to the other dragon and Dwarf when there was a squeal of delight. They looked over at Draupneir, who was nuzzling a happy Balin. The older Dwarf was patting the bronze dragon's snout with a grin. The other dragon looked to his 'cousin'.

"Can we keep them?" He begged.

The emerald dragon rolled his eyes. "We cannot keep people, Draupneir. Don't be daft."

Thorin looked to the dragon. "Why did you help us?"

"Why not?" The emerald grinned, before looking at the bronze. "Later tonight, I'll need you to lick my foot, Draupneir…I can't feel my toes."

The bronze dragon stuck his tongue out. "But you have hair on your feet!"

"Yes I do." The emerald snorted. "But I won't be able to walk through the mountain pass on our way home with this broken foot, now will I?"

Draupneir groaned.

"What is your name?" Thorin asked lowly.

The emerald raised lowered his head. "I, um…rather not say…it's a bit embarrassing actually."

"No! Come on, it's a great name cousin!" Draupneir chirped turning away from Balin.

"I'd rather not." The emerald murmured.

"I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror." Thorin introduced with a bow.

Balin stood up shakily, but giving a bow as well. "I am Balin, son of Fundin."

"I'm Draupneir!" The bronze dragon replied. "I'm not old enough to have earned a title yet, but my cousin has!"

He shot the emerald dragon an adoring look.

"Tell them cousin! Tell them!"

The emerald dragon sighed. "Bryngeir…of the Gilded Wings, at your service."

"That is not too bad." Thorin grinned, warming up to the dragon a bit more.

Bryngeir smirked a bit. "Thank you."

"So, tell us, how did you come to these parts? Are not all dragons hostile? Why did you not attack us as well?" Thorin asked genuinely curious.

Draupneir grinned. "Oh! Cousin, it does look like you will be telling a story! Bryngeir tells the best!"

The emerald dragon seemed to have a dragon equivalent of flushing. He flicked his tongue out and the pupils of his eyes dilated in their pools of hazel color. He lowered his head a bit more.

"I'm not that great of a storyteller."

"Well, it seems an appropriate time for explaining. If there were more Dwarves behind us, they wouldn't have hesitated to hurt you both." Balin exhaled.

"Understandable, given the nature of our rotten kin of the North." Bryngeir snorted with amusement.

"You are not drakes of the North?" Thorin queried.

Draupneir gave a bellowing laugh. "Not at all!"

"We, good Thorin, are of the small race of the Great Dragons." Bryngeir stated quietly.

"I've never heard of such a race of dragons in my studies." Balin pointed out.

"And just as well." Bryngeir said with a shake of his head. "If our kind were discovered, like you said—we would be killed."

"Why?" Thorin wondered.

"Because of the reputation that's been set up before us." The emerald gave an exasperated puff. "By those thrice blasted dragons who flounder about in the North."

"So, I sense a story?" The raven haired Dwarf smirked.

Bryngeir gave a dramatic sigh. "Oh I suppose, but get comfortable—it's a bit of a lengthy one."

The two dragons settled down in front of the Dwarves. Their large size forced any trees within the proximity to bend or break over. Draupneir gave a distressed look at them. Bryngeir rolled his eyes.

"No one will notice…do you think?"

"I think no one would dare want to know what caused such mighty trees to be felled, Master Dragon." Balin chuckled.

Draupneir gave the older Dwarf a queer look. "I am not a master, Balin. I have no craft yet. That is why I do not have a title."

"So what is your occupation, Bryngeir?" Thorin questioned, sitting down next to Balin. "What do you do for your title to be the 'Gilded Wings'?"

"I'm a sky racer." The dragon growled. "A very frowned upon job, and not much money to it either. Very improper for a dragon. Most would prefer to be hunters or gold seekers. But I enjoy it, such freedom in the sky when you're speeding through the clouds."

"Bryngeir's the best!" Draupneir chimed. "He is the fastest dragon out there, not even the 'Great' General of the Northern Dragons, Smaug, could hope to compete with him."

"Hush, do not say such things." Bryngeir rebuked.

"No, I wish to know." Thorin said, leaning forward.

"A long story indeed."

"We have the time."

"It is midday, do you not have somewhere to be?"

"Not until night fall."

Bryngeir sighed. "Very well. What do you wish to know?"

Thorin shot Balin an eager look, and the older Dwarf returned it. This was something outside of his area of expertise, which was metalworking—so it was something exciting. Besides, few can say they survived an encounter with a dragon, let alone two.

Thorin smiled. "Everything."


	2. Prologue II

Bryngeir yawned, having finished a long lecture on a slight part of dragon history. He crossed his foreclaws over each other and rested his head on them. Draupneir had fallen asleep as soon as he had started speaking, so the gold dragon was contentedly snoring away. But both Thorin and Balin showed no signs of relenting their listening, so the emerald dragon simply continued in his lessons.

"There are several working classes." Bryngeir said dully. "There are hunters and fishers, who obviously get the most pay for their work. There are guides and mappers, those are welcomed almost anywhere so they do not need to worry about food shortages. Then there are the warriors, and the swimmers. They patrol the boarders on land and sea—earning their keep by depending on the dragons that take them in. There are also lower class workers, like the sky racers. We only earn our food by being the best. If you do not come out on top of the others, there is no food for the night and you must try again in the morrow."

"When you mean, earn your keep—you earn wages in food?" Thorin asked.

Bryngeir shook his head. "I wish it were that easy. We have to earn hunting privileges, because for obvious reasons we cannot hunt in non-dragon populated areas. The higher up your job is, the more privilege you get. Take me for example, if I were to come out first place in a race, I would earn two hours of hunting. If I came out second, I would receive an hour, and third: thirty minutes. Any position under third results in a day without food."

Balin scrunched his nose in distaste. "And this has to do with territory?"

"Yes," the emerald dragon affirmed. "Dragons are very territorial. If you're hunting and you find yourself on another's land—good luck to you."

He twisted his position a bit, lifting his wing and showing them his side. All along the green scales there were shallow long rake marks. Both looked appreciatively at the battle wounds; to a Dwarf, a good battle wound was a red badge of courage.

"Those aren't even half of my scars. But that just happened to be a recent attack. I won first place in a race and the dragon on the territory claimed I cheated. Deeming me unworthy to hunt on his land, he assaulted me. I had to fight back, Draupneir was only fifty, and he was a hungry little dragonet; I could go without food fine. He could not. So I fought the other out; as you can see, it did not end well for me."

"And there was no way you could prove that you'd earned your keep?" Thorin demanded, anger welling up in his chest.

Shame filled the dragon's eyes and he turned his head away from. "I'm not very…popular among the racers or the crowd. When I win, they make sure that I continue to work for my wages. I have never had an easy race, or an easy hunt."

"Why?" Balin asked.

Draupneir raised his head, looking at his cousin curiously. "Yes, why do none of the others like you, cousin?"

Bryngeir's pupils became slits and his nostrils flared, grey smoke coming from them. "A dragon needs his secrets, doesn't he?"

"Not if he is hurt by them." Draupneir growled irritably.

Thorin got the impression that the two dragons have held the conversation before.

"So tell me more, of the two races." He interrupted the death stare match.

Immediately Draupneir dropped his head back to his claws. Bryngeir returned his focus to the Dwarrow. His mood was amiable again, and his pupils large and wide. He gave them both a scholarly nod.

"The two races, the Fire Drakes of the North and the Great Dragons." He explained. "They were once bound together in unity. It wasn't until the Second Age that we were…segregated. The Fire Drakes are our much larger cousins. The average Drake is about thrice the size of myself. Their fire is probably the hottest thing in Middle Earth, for it is possible for them to make diamonds. Their wings are heavy and leathery, unlike the Great Dragons' thinner, more agile membrane wings. Our colors are very much different as well. Draupneir and myself are very good examples of our kin; we tend to be born with bright colors so to see each other when we fly above the clouds. The Drakes are born with colors of only red and brown. They tend to be dark so that they may lurk in the smoke and smog of their fires—a survival adaption if you will."

Draupneir gave a humming chuckle. "Another fascinating difference that we have from the Fire Drakes is that we grow hair."

Thorin and Balin raised their brows.

"Yes," Bryngeir agreed with a huffy laugh. "Great Dragons all grow patches of fur. The placement varies, though, from dragon to dragon."

"Hence why I have fur on my tail." The gold chuckled, raising his plumed tail and fanning it out vainly. "And cousin has fur on his feet!"

The emerald and gold dragon shifted himself uncomfortably. "Why yes, er—"

"Did you know that Bryngeir is the only one in our kind to have hair on his feet?" Draupneir continued, giving a mocking chirp.

"Truly?" Thorin asked, finding the topic a bit amusing.

The gold dragon nodded eagerly. "Most dragons grow a mane or chest fur—even fluff on their ears and horns, but Bryngeir is the only dragon to have fur on his hind feet!"

The other dragon pulled his ears back flat against his skull, his eyes flicking towards their small audience with embarrassment.

"There is nothing wrong with being unique, Master Bryngeir." Thorin said, trying to bite back his laugh; he saw that the older dragon was clearly uncomfortable.

"And these Fire Drakes…do you not get along well with them?" Balin asked tilting his head to the side, changing the subject. Every time Brygeir had mentioned the word 'Drake' he spoke it with an exhausted tone and a pensive look.

Bryngeir shook his head. "Most of my kin do not. There are a seldom few, though who serve as envoys for our kind to hold talks among the two races. The Fire Drakes are never allowed into our territory but they allow our ambassadors to hold meetings. Mainly to reconstitute our borders. If any of us, Drake or Dragon were to be caught within each other's borders outside of peace meetings—"

Draupneir shivered. "It would be very, very bad."

"What would happen?" Balin inquired, his eyes wide.

"It would be time to declare a new king." Bryngeir quivered, his voice menacing. "A thing like that, would force both kinds into war. If a Fire Drake were to enter Great Dragon borders, a Great Dragon would have to step forward as a champion and fight him. Whichever dragon wins, is to be the new king. Same were to happen if the roles were reversed."

"Why?"

Bryngeir hefted his shoulders back, slightly uncomfortable. "No one knows. It was a rule set down after the First War. I might be possible they thought the king would unite the dragons again. But we all really knows what happens. The king returns to his own kind and only rules his own. No unity, just a dragon with a title and power."

"Is there a king right now?" Thorin questioned.

Draupneir hummed. "The General Smaug of the Fire Drakes. He was the last dragon to cross borders out of the respective times. He ruined absolutely everything. He sets desolation wherever he goes, burning and killing."

Bryngeir nodded mournfully. "It is dragons such as him that absolutely spoil our images."

"Is he not the dragon that Draupneir said you could best?" Balin pointed out.

The emerald dragon shot his cousin a sharp look. "He doesn't understand what he says."

The gold dragon huffed indignantly. "I do too! Any dragon who has ever met you would know it too! You are incredibly fast, you have great stamina and agility and—"

"Enough!" Bryngeir growled, straining himself not to snarl. "Smaug is both the strongest and the most brutal of dragons of the two races. I would never stand a chance."

"Excuse me, laddie." Balin interrupted. "But you seem to have your fair share of battle scars."

"And, everyone knows that a good warrior bears battle scars!" Thorin added, looking at the dragon with something akin to admiration.

Bryngeir sighed. "It isn't that simple. These scars are…well they're reminders of my stupidity and my ignorance. I am not a fighter, nor a warrior; my cousin would do well to remember that. If Smaug were to ever cross our borders, the champion of the Great Dragons would most definitely not be me."

"Your cousin is right here." Draupneir snarked. "And fine. If you're too coward to fight Smaug, then I will."

Bryngeir walloped his cousin upside the head with his tail, mindful of his spikes of course. "Don't be foolish. You wouldn't last five minutes in a battle pitted against the Fire Drake king."

"Oh really?" Draupneir drawled out, dangerously calm.

The other dragon didn't have a chance to react as the gold one pounced him. A bugle of alarm rose from his throat as the smaller scurried over the bigger's body, nipping playfully at his wings. He swiveled his head to the Dwarrow, his long neck arching.

"Help me defeat this evil dragon king!" Draupneir exclaimed brightly.

"What would you have us do, oh brave dragon?" Balin teased.

"Attack his ears!"

Thorin coughed in surprise. "His…ears?"

"No!" Bryngeir howled.

"He's ticklish in his ears."

"You miserable excuse for my cousin, get off!" Bryngeir moved his legs, trying to stand up underneath Draupneir's weight.

Balin and Thorin gave each other questioning looks before shrugging. Why not? With half-hearted battle cries, they lunged themselves at the emerald dragon's ears. Bryngeir struggled to scuffle back, shaking his head back and forth. A deep humming noise vibrated from his chest.

"No, no, no—you two Dwarrow stay good and well away from my ears!"

Draupneir's tail slammed onto his cousin's mouth with a good solid thwack. Bryngeir gave a muffled shout of surprise, squirming underneath the other dragon. Thorin and Balin each to this as their chance and they jumped up onto his ears; Thorin on the left and Balin on the right. It surprised the raven haired dwarf how warm the pieces of listening skin was. The outside was coated in light leathery scales, while the inside slowly pulsed a warm pink. Experimentally, Thorin ran his hand along the inside of the ear shell. Bryngeir all but squealed in protest—a very undignified sound for a dragon.

"Balin!" Thorin smirked, his tone a bit loaded with conspiracy. "The shells of his ears are ticklish."

"Yes! Attack my cousin without mercy." Draupneir crooned, wrestling with said dragon.

"Nope, you all are to stop, mffp!" He was shushed again as his smaller cousin coiled his tail around his green snout and a few of his gold chest-plate scales.

The Dwarves, unsure _why_ they were helping Draupneir tickle his cousin, picked up the pace. The scratched the sensitive scales this way and that, while the bronzy dragon tickled the big, smooth chest plates on Bryngeir. The emerald dragon was reduced to a laughing hysteria; his body shaking with mirth.

"Alright, alright!" Bryngeir hooted. "I relent! I surrender, you win Draupneir!"

Draupneir paused and stretched his neck to look at his cousin curiously. "I win? Does that mean I get to be king?"

Bryngeir grinned. "Not quite."

With a sudden twist, he twirled himself around, pinning Draupneir under him and flinging both Thorin and Balin onto the ground. He reached out and trapped both Dwarrow underneath his foreclaws. A smug grin was plastered on his face as his hazel eyes glimmered with oily laughing tears. He shot a warm puff of hot air towards the three of them.

"Except, one must never let his guard down."

"You tricky, tricky dragon you. We hate you forever!" Draupneir yelled, wiggling under his cousin's much larger body.

"Unhand us you miserable dragon!" Thorin laughed, he twisted underneath the dragon's claw, not quite able to quell the feeling of danger.

Balin just pretended to play dead.

"So, with all three of my opponents, down I suppose I've won." Bryngeir continued with a smile. "In that case, as my first act of king—I release the lot of you."

He lifted himself off of the two Dwarrow, and his cousin. With a lazy stretch, he skittered over closer to the mountain cropping so that he could scratch his back against the rock. Draupneir rolled his eyes and snorted. Thorin and Balin gave question looks the bronze dragon.

"He's been wanting to do that all day." He explained.

Thorin cocked his brow. "Scratch his back against the rock?"

Draupneir laughed. "Yessir. This side of the mountain has a good portion of limestone in it. Scratching our scales against the rocks, buffs them out if you will; like filing down a nail."

"Really?" Balin asked, intrigued.

"Umhm."

"Strange."

"But interesting."

"We dragons are queer."

"Call it a victory scratch." Bryngeir snorted, stepping up towards the three of them. His side was coated in ashy grey dust. His spiked tail flicked back and forth in an easy pace, clearly he was pleased with himself.

"So what now?" Thorin asked, stretching back against the ground. He felt tired. It had been a long, strenuous day.

Bryngeir glanced up at the sky, his neck stretching up. "It is close to midday. You and Balin still have to make the return journey to the gates of Erebor, yes?"

Balin nodded. "Aye, and given the time and place we are at; we'll be late."

Draupneir looked at his cousin pointedly.

Bryngeir blinked before sighing dejectedly. "Go back to the cave Draupneir, I'll meet you there."

The bronze dragon grinned. "Be safe cousin. It was a pleasure Balin, Thorin. I hope with cross paths again."

"Same to you, Draupneir." Balin smiled.

Thorin nodded.

Draupneir turned around slowly before stretching out his wings. With an excited wiggle, the dragon jumped up into the air. He waited about five seconds before surging his wings with a powerful down stroke. The gust of wind forced the Dwarves to skitter back and it flustered Bryngeir's floppy ears around, but it made Draupneir soar up into the sky. In no time at all, the dragon gave a goodbye call to his cousin before disappearing into the west above the tree lines.

"I can bring you as close to the front gate of the mountain as I can." Bryngeir explained.

Thorin nodded eagerly, but Balin held up a halting hand. His expression clouded with caution immediately.

"As much as we've come to enjoy your company today, Master Bryngeir, we can simply not allow that."

"Why not?" Thorin demanded.

"Yes, why?" Bryngeir asked, confused.

Balin sighed. "You may be our friend, but the others will simply not understand."

"I said I would get close but not close enough to be seen." The dragon repeated. "And if this is a matter of trust because I'm a dragon, you have my word that I won't do anything. Besides, I already know you live in Erebor. That much is obvious. So let me get the two of you home without speculations where you've been. How long have the two of you been away, anyways?"

"All week." Thorin replied.

Balin nodded.

"It would make sense that the two of you would need to return on time then." Bryngeir said. "Wouldn't want your families fretting."

Balin laughed nervously.

Thorin cleared his throat. "You are completely correct."

"Good, now there is no arguments. The subjected is settled."

"Wait," Balin exclaimed, "what?"

Bryngeir laughed, before lunging at the two Dwarrow, grabbing them in both of his claws. Not even hesitating, his hind legs pushed him off of the ground, surging them into the air. Balin and Thorin grabbed for a tighter hold on the dragon's claws, screaming their heads off. The emerald dragon gave a booming laugh before giving a fancy twirl into the air. Balin sucked the air in but didn't let it out.

"Breath Balin!" Thorin commanded, forgetting his own fear at seeing his friend's face turning purple.

The other Dwarf exhaled, finally finding the reason.

"Bryngeir, slow down!" Thorin showed. "We live underground, we are not used to this open air!"

The dragon's wing beats slowed. "You just need to get used to it."

"I think…it would be…wise," Balin choked out. "If…you drop…us off…here."

"But I'm still about two miles out—"

Thorin gave a pat on the dragon's claw. "You better do as he says."

Bryngeir frowned but nodded. Tilting his wings, he began his descent downwards. It was slower than their ascent, almost as if the dragon was trying to make it a tad more comfortable for the two Dwarrow. After about five minutes, his hind claws touched down. With a lethargic gentleness, Bryngeir eased both Thorin and Balin onto the ground. Balin collapsed on contact, Thorin only swayed before rebalancing.

"And this…is where…we say…goodbye, Master Bryngeir." Balin wheezed.

The dragon took a step back, looking affronted. "I only meant to help—"

"And help you did!" Thorin piped up quickly, stepping between the two. "It isn't such a long walk now, thanks to you and we most certainly will reach the gates in time."

Bryngeir snorted.

"Farewell, Master Dragon…may you stay…in good health." Balin dismissed, before turning around and beginning to pick his way through the wood.

Thorin looked at him before shaking his head. Then he looked at Bryngeir; the dragon actually looked hurt by Balin's forwardness. The raven-haired Dwarf raised his hand in farewell.

"It was an honor to have met you, Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings. And thank you, for saving us from those Orcs earlier, I doubt Balin and I could've handled them by ourselves."

Bryngeir gave a tired chuckle. "Well that much was clear, Thorin son of Thrain, Son of Thror."

The raven-haired Dwarf looked at the dragon in alarm. He had purposefully not told the dragon of his heritage in fear that he might over react. Or worse, try to kidnap him because he was royalty.

"You look like him, your father." Bryngeir said, looking away; his voice was forlorn and cold. "I've seen you Dwarves work all your life, being accepted and respected by everyone you know; even the Elves."

Thorin gaped.

"I guess you could say," Bryngeir continued in a murmur. "I'm a tad jealous."

"I am sorry, Bryngeir." Thorin apologized, but for what, he didn't know.

The dragon gave a weak smile, finally looking at the Dwarf again. "Not all races can be social ones. And not all of us can be beloved princes and kings; you got it lucky in this world, Thorin. Don't waste your life away on trivial things because one day it will all be gone. Make the most of your life." He gave him a wink. "Rule the world. It's yours to command."

With that the dragon turned around dejectedly and lifted his wings up.

"Bryngeir, wait!" Thorin shouted out.

The dragon turned his head, his long neck arching gracefully. His ears were raised, showing the Dwarf that he was listening.

"You're not alone, you have your cousin." He said. "And, if you ever need me, I am at your service as well."

The dragon's eyes widened.

"Thorin son of Thrain, at your service." The raven haired Dwarf bowed, before giving the dragon a goofy grin. "It's not every day one can meet a dragon and live to tell the tale."

Bryngeir settled himself back onto all fours, before bowing his head. "And Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings, at yours, Thorin. Besides, it's not every day a dragon can meet a Dwarf and not be attacked."

Thorin looked at him with wonder. "You have met other Dwarves?"

"Oh yes," The dragon purred. "Although, none of my meetings have ever gone…pleasantly."

"Really? Such as?"

"Well there was this one time that—"

"Thorin!" Balin shouted, from a little ways off.

The raven haired Dwarf looked hesitantly between his two companions.

"Go on then, Thorin." Bryngeir said, looking in Balin's general direction. "Go back to your Dwarves."

"And you?" Thorin asked lowly.

"I will go back to my cousin." The dragon sighed. "Tomorrow I have another race. I need to rest."

"Will you win?" The Dwarf demanded.

Bryngeir turned his head. "I'd better. I can't go another month without food."

Thorin's eyes widened.

"I've only been winning enough to feed Draupneir. I tell him I've already eaten when I bring the kill back to him."

"How are you not starving?"

"I am." Bryngeir grunted. "But I control myself well, dragons can go periods of time without eating. Mine is coming up soon. I don't want to become a monster, but I won't win another territory fight."

"Maybe I can help." Thorin suggest.

The dragon shook his head. "Your grandfather, as good a king as he is, has grown suspicious of our kind. I know it—he knows dragons are drawn to treasure hoards. While, Draupneir and I do not care for such things, I know he will become utterly distrustful if you hunt enough food for a dragon. No, Thorin. This is where we say goodbye."

"I will see you again, dragon." Thorin declared. "Meet me two weeks from now where you found us. I will help you in any way I can."

Bryngeir cocked his head before lifting his wings again. "Well, see you then, I suppose."

**0oo0**

"Thorin, 'ey, laddie, wake up already."

Thorin groaned, his eyes shooting open.

His father stood over his bed menacingly, his arms crossed. "Get up Thorin, ye've got a 'hole day o' duties ta attend ta."

"Agh, Adâd." The younger Dwarf griped, pulling the fur blanket back over his eyes. "Let me sleep longer."

"None o' tha', Thorin!" Thrain growled, pulling the blanket off his son.

"Adâd!" Thorin roared, falling off the bed to get his father's eyes off of him. "Privacy!"

Thrain's eyes widened. "Ye've grown son."

" _Adâd!"_

"Right, I'm jus' gonna leave now…" Thrain coughed, awkwardly stepping back towards the door.

Thorin sighed.

"'Ow was yer rest day, yesterday?" Thrain asked suddenly.

"It was pleasant. It's nice to have a day to relax after a hunt." Thorin growled, his skin tingling against the cold of the stone floor.

"Good, good." Thorin's father nodded. "Och, yer grandfather's 'pectin' ye after yer done with breakfast."

"Alright."

"Anythin' else you need?"

_"Adâd."_

"Right, sorry. See ye in the throne room."

The door closed and Thorin let out a relieved exhale. Then looked down at himself and flushed. Why did his father have to take the damned blanket off? He would've gotten up eventually. Rubbing his face with his hands, he stood up and walked across his room to find his clothes. After he had washed up and properly clothed, he left his room to head down for breakfast. He was most definitely not eager to meet with his grandfather. Thror had changed from the past years he had known him. The king had become shrewd, and reclusive—always running off to his hoard. And it worried Thorin.

Thorin clambered down the steps to the throne room after breakfast, his boots heavy on the slick stone. Several other Dwarves bustled about him on their daily business, not aware of how anxious he felt. With an inhale, he turned into the throne room, and stomped across the bridge that was suspended over the vast wealth of Erebor.

"Ah, Thorin." A deep voice rumbled.

"Adadûn." Thorin greeted calmly, looking at Thror with a regal composure.

The old Dwarf, stood from his golden throne and walked down to his grandson. He place both hands on Thorin's shoulders. He smiled gently.

"How was your hunt?"

"It was fine, Adadûn. No success, but it was nice all the same." Thorin stated simply.

Thror frowned. "You are never pleased, Thorin, when you do anything less than what you're capable of."

"Perhaps, I reached a limit, during my week hunting." Thorin smirked.

"Dwarves don't have limits, we're made of stone." Thror growled.

Thorin raised his chin. "What's this about, Adadûn?"

"We found tracks near the mountain; tracks that belong to no holy creature in Middle Earth. Do you know anything of this?" Thror demanded, his voice menacingly.

"No, I saw no tracks on my return to Erebor." Thorin lied. "Are you sure they were not made yesterday?"

Thror rubbed his temples. "No, but they're relatively fresh. Scouts said they were made within the last couple of days."

Thorin faked a worried sigh. "What did these tracks look like? Are they Orc tracks, is that why you are worried?"

"No." The king petered before starting strong again. "These were large, large prints. Claw marks by the reports. Something big made them."

"I would say trolls, but they don't have claws."

"That's true. I need you, next time you go out Thorin—to be careful, and to keep an eye out. There are no words to describe what could be lurking in the darkness."

"I will." Thorin nodded, "I promise."

"Good." Thrain sighed, relieved. "In the meantime, I'll be sending out hunting parties."

The raven haired Dwarf almost panicked. "Hunting parties?"

"Aye." The king affirmed. "If there is a creature that poses as a threat to Erebor, it must be destroyed."

 _Oh Mahal, they will find Bryngeir,_ Thorin thought, his blood freezing.

"You understand, don't you Thorin?"

"Yes, the safety of the people comes as top priority, they must be protected at all costs."

Thror stuttered. "Er, aye…the people. You will make a fine king one day, Thorin."

Thorin gave a slight bow. "Thank you, Adadûn. Now, I must excuse myself. Balin expects me for our lessons today."

"Very good. I will see you later in the day, Thorin." Thror grunted.

"Goodbye, Adadûn."

Thorin left quickly, determination lengthening his stride. He had to get to Balin quickly. He ignored the greetings of passerby guards and Dwarrow alike, he had a mission to complete. If he didn't warn Bryngeir, it would be possible that his grandfather would find him. And he had saw the glint in Thror's eyes. Thror wasn't entirely worried about their subjects. He was worried about his gold. His precious treasure, and that really, really irked the young prince.

"My prince!"

Thorin felt like he walked into a stone walk. Instead he realized that he had collided into Balin. The Dwarf's arms were full of parchments and his sword.

"Going somewhere?" Thorin questioned quietly.

Balin nodded. "Aye, back to my room to put my things away. Then I've got a few young ones to train and—"

"Good, you're not busy. Come on." Thorin snapped, grabbing the other's arm.

"Thorin! What? Where are we going?" The older Dwarf protested.

"It regards our new friends."

Balin's eyes widened, before he allowed the younger Dwarf to dragon him back to the royal's wing. Thorin made sure no one was looking before shoving his friend into his room. He slammed the door behind him.

"Thror's found Bryngeir's tracks…Well I assume their Bryngeir's, he was the one who was closer to the mountain."

"I thought the dragon said he would stay far enough from the mountain to not be detected." Balin groaned. Setting his things down on a chair.

"I don't know what it was that prompted my Adadûn to send scouts but he did, and he found dragon tracks. I don't think Bryngeir can really be held accountable right now." Thorin growled, running a hand through his thick mane.

"So what do we do, Thorin?" the older Dwarf whispered, his voice unsure.

"We go and warn the dragons."

"You can't be serious."

Thorin was already grabbing his sword, and his travel pack—which he had neglected to unpack since their hunting trip.

"I haven't been this serious in a while."

Balin gulped. "Do you think _we_ could get in trouble?"

"If we're not caught, we will be fine." Thorin snapped, shouldering his things.

Balin sighed. "What would you have me do?"

"Come with me. This is going to be an 'educational' outing. That way we have until nightfall. I have no idea how in Middle Earth we're going to find either Bryngeir or Draupneir but we have to try."

The other Dwarf nodded. "Alright. Let's get going then. I don't want to be caught outside of Erebor longer than needed. People'll get suspicious."

"When are they not?" The raven haired Dwarf snorted, before opening his door. "Let's go."

They wasted no time leaving the mountain. They stopped to let Thrain know of what they were doing and a few others before rushing out. Both Dwarrow literally ran through the eastern forest, looking for any fresh signs of the dragons. At least two hours passed by before Balin called Thorin to a halt.

"It's such a large forest. We can't possibly hope to find them."

Thorin panted. "It doesn't matter, we have to try. If Thror finds them, they'll be killed."

"You can't kill a dragon, Thorin. Their skin is too hard." Balin pointed out.

"We have to try." Thorin growled. "We owe them, they saved us when we could've been killed by Orcs."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"I don't know. Just keep looking."

They looked for any other fresh signs of the dragons before breaking for lunch. Even hunting had never been that hard or arduous, and this was a type of hunting. The dragons were careful, Thorin had to give the two credit for that. And if it hadn't been for his recklessness, Bryngeir would've never had to rescue them and his tracks would've never have been found.

"It'll be alright laddie." Balin soothed. "I don't know what it was that bonded you to those dragons so quickly but I promise you it'll be alright."

Thorin sighed. "I just don't—"

"Dwarrow!" A voice bellowed.

Both Balin and Thorin looked up to see a bronze form circling over the trees.

"Speak of the devil." Balin drawled.

The dragon landed as lightly as possible, as if he knew making tracks was a dangerous thing.

"Thorin, Balin...thank everything good… I found you." Draupneir panted, his chest heaving.

"Draupneir, I'm glad you're here as well. How did you find us?" Thorin asked.

"I smelled you out." The bronze dragon huffed.

"You were looking for us laddie?" Balin asked.

"Yes…it's about Bryngeir!" Draupneir exclaimed.

"That is why we were searching for you as well!" Thorin added, wondering what were the chances?

The dragon looked alarmed. "How'd you find out?"

"My grandfather told me—"

"Wait, how did your grandfather know?" Draupneir demanded, sounding almost disgusted.

"He had some scouts outside and they found tracks?"

"There were blood tracks?" The dragon exclaimed, his voice edging with slight panic.

"Blood, Mahal, no! If there had been…wait." The prince's voice spoke with caution. "Blood? Draupneir, what happened?"

Draupneir seemed to break out into a sob. "It's Bryngeir, he's hurt. He's really, really hurt. I don't know anyone else, and I didn't know who to come to."

"What happened laddie?" Balin demanded.

"He had a race yesterday," the bronze dragon gulped. "He won, fair and square he did. And do you know what? The other racers, they ganged up on him. He fought good and hard but they cheated. They were wearing black iron claws on their natural ones. It pierced Bryngeir's scales. He's sick and hurt—I don't know what to do."

Thorin and Balin looked to each other.

"I only have a few bandages in my pack." The raven haired one whispered.

"We would have to get more." Balin pointed out.

Thorin turned to face Draupneir. "Meet us back here in an hour. We're going to get medical supplies."

The dragon nodded, his facial expression numbed.

Thorin stood up, shoving their lunch things back into his traveling pack. With a nod, he and Balin took off running, this time in a more straight direction. They knew where they had to return and this time they would have a rendezvous spot. It took them about the total of thirty minutes to return to Erebor and when they did, they were met with a very worried Thrain.

"What happened?" He demanded. "I thought the two of you were going to be gone all day?"

Thorin had absolutely no idea on how to answer his father but luckily Balin handled it for him.

"Pardon me, your majesty, but due to your son's lack of attentiveness, I've decided to spend the next couple of days showing him the collection of stars known as Mahal's Hammer. It's quite a piece of sky work. So we came back to get my stargazing materials."

Thrain smiled appreciatively. "I 'member when yer father Fundin, showed me the Mahal's Hammer cluster, it was quite the beauty. 'opefully Thorin'll find this interestin'."

"We'll see." Thorin grunted, playing the part.

"Well, 'ave fun—the both of ye. An' stay out o' trouble, too. Thorin's got ta come an' 'elp me with a meetin' with the Dwarrow of the Iron 'Ills later this week."

"Diplomacy." Thorin moaned unenthusiastically.

"It's good practice." Thrain barked back.

"Of course it is, majesty." Balin butted in, pushing Thorin along. "But I wish to start tonight and we must set up properly…"

"O' course. Go on then. I'll see the both o' ye when ye return." Thrain dismissed.

Balin gave a respectful nod before tugging Thorin along, mentally scolding the prince for dragging their time out. They entered Balin's room in the mountain and gathered all the healing supplies they could.

"Should we risk going to Oin's for more?" Thorin asked, slipping more gauze and potions into his pack.

Balins shouldered his own bag. "We can't. Besides, I've got plenty of stuffs in my room. It might not be enough to heal a full grown dragon, but, it'll have to suffice."

Thorin nodded before grabbing some healing plaster and sacked that too. About twenty minutes past before they were done raiding the room. Grabbing a bit of extra food on their way out, they both ran out of Erebor again.

"This is becoming a habbit, my prince." Balin laughed with a huff.

"Hush." Thorin snapped, focusing on running. He was really getting tired of having to run everywhere just to help the dragons. They needed some better way of travel.

Draupneir looked up as they came. Neither one of the Dwarrow knew if he had heard them because he didn't have visible ears like Bryngeir did, but they figure he at least smelled them. The dragon sighed in relief, stopping his pacing. His foot prints had been covered up by the tail skids in the ground that had brought up a bunch of dirt. Thorin was mildly impressed.

"We brought the supplies."

"Good." Draupneir nodded, before surging forward and grabbing them before taking off into the air.

Even though they weren't prepared for it, their screams weren't as loud as they had been the first time. Maybe because they had already been shoved into the experience of flying in this manner before. Or maybe it was because Thror would be keeping a special eye on things. Who knows? But both Thorin and Balin literally bit their tongues so that way they wouldn't give themselves away.

After a few minutes of painful silence, Thorin finally happened to find the ability to speak without squeaking.

"What happened?"

"I don't know." Draupneir shouted over the wind. "He came home from his race and he was all scratched up and bloody."

"But dragons don't bleed." Balin interrupted.

Thorin could actually feel the dragon roll his eyes.

"So if a dragon tells you that another dragon is bleeding, you're not going to believe it?"

Thorin couldn't help his chuckle. "You are absolutely right, Draupneir."

Balin huffed.

"I asked him what had happened, and he said he got into a fight with the other racers. Said they were blaming him for something he couldn't control. Something he couldn't fix. Then they attacked him. Bryngeir said he was able to knock two unconscious before the others jumped him good."

"How many were there?" Balin asked, imagining at least no more than five.

"I think in this race there were fifteen." Draupneir informed thoughtfully.

Thorin sucked in his breath. "Was he the oldest?"

"No. this was a preliminary race. He would've been one of the youngest at 159 years of age."

"Bryngeir is 159?" Balin wondered.

Draupneir nodded.

The dragon pulled up suddenly, alighting on top of a mountain outcropping of the rock. He set the Dwarrow down as gently as he could. With a flick of his tail, he beckoned them to follow him. They hurried after the bronze dragon, their feet pounding the mountainside. Thorin felt sick to his stomach, unsure why the idea of a hurt dragon would bother him so much.

They walked for what seemed to be a good thirty minutes. Draupneir seemed to sense their impatience. He twisted his neck a bit so he could look at them.

"The mountain pass is too narrow for me to fly in. My wings are too large."

This seemed like an acceptable explanation.

Finally, after a while, they approached a cave. With a sigh, Draupneir nodded his head and ducked in. Thorin and Balin followed. The cave was like any in the mountain; dark, but not dank, filled with smooth, sleek stone. It was secluded, in the forsaken part of a mountain rage that was a good ways off from Erebor; so it was safe for the two dragon kind. But what they didn't expect in the cave, was a dull green and gold dragon, curled up in the back.

Several of the golden plate scales that lined Bryngeir's back had been wrenched, revealing dark pink skin. The spikes at the back of his hips had been snapped, leaving jagged, bony remains. His body was covered in rake marks and bloods. His left ear was torn, half of it missing. His feet fur had little flecks of blood snagged in hairs.

"Bryngeir!" Thorin shouted, rushing instantly to the dragon's side.

The resting dragon didn't open his eyes but he did speak. "Draupneir…thought…thought I told you…not to get…get help…"

"You're sick, cousin. Your wounds could get infected, especially with some of your scales up like that. They are the only ones I knew who would be willing to help." Draupneir defended.

The emerald dragon gave a weak hum.

Balin rushed to Thorin's aid immediately. "We have to work quick, laddie. I may not know enough healing like our healers in Erebor do, but I do know that some of these may already be infected."

So they set to work, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds. They set plaster and bandages everywhere they could. Balin even went so far as to stitch up several of the gashes under the sticking up scales on the dragon's back. By the time they were done, Bryngeir was shaking like a leaf in the autumn. He had already lost a lot of blood.

"Better…?" He muttered.

Balin patted the unwounded leg of the dragon. "For now. We'll stay the night and see how you fare."

Thorin stroked the dragon's foreleg scales in a soothing manner, trying to slow the dragon's quivering.

Draupneir was already asleep at the front of the cave, guarding it. Balin packed up the medical things and after using it, handed Thorin the water skin. The raven haired dwarf used the water to rinse his hands and beard of the any blood or puss that had gotten on him before handing it back to Balin. The older nodded before leaning against the rock wall.

"I don't know how, but you should try to rest. Even if…it's uncomfortable."

Thorin nodded but stayed in his position.

Time passed and the moon began to rise in a clouding sky. The soft breathes of Balin and Draupneir echoed through the cave and yet still Thorin kept watch. And still Bryngeir shivered.

"T-t-t-thorin?" The dragon stuttered.

"I'm right here." Thorin whispered.

"Why, why can't…they accept what…what I am?" He mumbled, his voice sounding on the verge of tears.

"A dragon?" the dwarf gave a small chuckle.

"Child…of, of, of…of a Fire Drake…and a Great Dragon.,," the other cried.

Thorin's brow's shot up.

"My…mother…was a Drake…my father, a Great…Dragon." Bryngeir continued through teeth chatters. "They…hate me…because…because of it. Yest-yesterday…won first place…a whole minute…before the others…blamed it on my…mother. Everyone…knows, that because they're…lithe…they're faster…called it cheating…"

All the Dwarf could do was lay a hand on the dragon's haunch, offering comfort. He was too shocked to say anything.

"Am I really…really that…evil?" He cried.

"No," Thorin rumbled, trying his best to comfort the injured dragon. "You're not. You could not change or help the fact who your mother was. The others have no right to hurt you because of the fact."

Bryngeir gave a tired laugh. "I don't…don't…know why…I trust you…Thorin…but thank you…I don't get…to trust others…often."

Thorin closed his eyes and rested against the dragon's leg. "You're welcome."

A pained, furious roar woke him up. His eyes shot open fast as the world blinked before him. What he saw mortified him. Dwarves swarmed the cave, Draupneir was nowhere to be seen. But Bryngeir, the foolish dragon was trying to stand, sending torrents of fire the Dwarrow's way. Thorin shuffled back, surprised when he met the strong grip of Thrain.

"Adâd?" Thorin yelled, trying to rip himself from his father's grasp.

The look of rage in Thrain's face could not be described.

"Traitor! Traitor!" Bryngeir roared, thrashing his neck and tail about, trying to fling the Dwarrow whom had begun lashing chains over him.

"Bryngeir!" Thorin bellowed, trying to help his friend.

"Thorin."

And the raven haired Dwarf looked up into the eyes of a very, very, very disappointed, and very, very, very angry Thror.

"Adadûn?"

Suddenly, something hit the base of the prince's head and his world shattered into darkness and stars.

Bryngeir's roars of desolation echoed through the night.

" _Traitor!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Prologue III


	3. Prologue III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scheme between a Dwarf and a Dragon...and a death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a khuzdul guide for y'all:
> 
> Melhekith: king who is young  
> Melhekhel: king of all kings  
> shomakh: guard-men  
> zabadkhel: lord of all lords (which would be Thrain)  
> inúdoy: son  
> furkh ubkun: life payment  
> inúdoyith: son that is young  
> amhgand: I promise  
> Mahathhôr shumûkh: gather the guards

The first thing Thorin noticed when he awoke was that he was incredibly sore. His head buzzed and throbbed while his body felt completely shattered. With an ached groan, he twisted on what felt like his bed. His fingers grabbed at the fur blanket that he felt covering him.

"Agh, why does everything hurt?" He rumbled in pain.

"That would be you refocusing." A feminine voice whispered.

"Dís?" Thorin groaned.

"No, _melhekith_ , it is not Lady Dís." The voice replied.

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to avoid the pain that came with his eyelids cracking open. When he did finally pry his eyes open he found that a young Dwarrowdam was in his field of vision. She had dark brown hair that was braided in a series of intricate braids, almost like a cascading waterfall. Her violet and black robes given her tanned skin a worn look.

"A servant?" He choked.

She snorted. "For now."

"What…what happened?" Thorin moaned putting a hand to his forehead.

"Do you not remember?" She asked quietly.

Thorin laughed bitterly. "I wouldn't be asking you if I did."

"The _melhekhel_ cognitively freed you." She said.

"W-w-what was your name?" Thorin rasped. "And what was that big word?"

The female chuckled. "My name is Solbrâ. And the big word? It's another word for that he took the dragon from his mind."

"Dragon?" The prince whispered, trying to remember.

"Aye," She nodded gravely. "The one that they captured yesterday."

"Y-y-yesterday?" Thorin demanded. "A dragon?"

"They must've hit you harder than they thought." Solbrâ observed.

"No," Thorin protested, "I remember. Bryngeir—"

"Who?"

"The dragon."

Solbrâ blinked. "It has a name?"

"There is much more than a name." Thorin whispered, trying to remember if the Dwarves had harmed the dragon in his last minutes of consciousness. "His name is Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings, he is a sky racer, and he is one hundred and fifty nine years old—which is young for a dragon."

" _Melhekith,_ you are unwell." Solbrâ said shakily. "You must rest."

"I need to see him." Thorin pressed.

"King Thror would not approve if—"

"I command you to take me, Solbrâ." Thorin growled, shifting out of bed.

She dropped the tray she was carrying onto a table and rushed to his side. "Fine, fine—just, let me help you up."

"I can do it fine."

"Yeah, no." She snorted, grabbing his arm and pulling him up. "You were unconscious for a day. I'm going to help you."

"Have they treated him well?"

"Who?"

"Bryngeir,"

"The dragon?"

"Yes."

She shrugged. "Only the _shomakh_ and the _melhekhel_ and _zabadkhel_ are allowed in the throne hall. No one has seen the dragon since. But we can hear him; he roars a lot."

"It is what I fear." Thorin said, as she pulled him up.

"So… the dragon didn't, possess your mind?" She asked nervously. "If you don't mind me asking, sire."

"Bryngeir is my friend." Thorin growled. "He saved both Balin and I from a fate at the hands of Orcs. I need to let my grandfather and father know."

"But—"

"I am not giving you a choice."

"They told me to tell them if you awoke."

"I will go to them."

"Very well, _melhekith._ " Solbrâ nodded reluctantly.

Struggling, she managed to haul Thorin up to his feet. With a curt nod to him, she grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the room. She walked as quickly as she could down the hall towards the throne room. Thorin did his best to ward off the nausea that ran up his throat. Solbrâ led him quietly down the hall. There were seemingly no guards anywhere. Thorin shivered at the thought of them all being the throne hall with Bryngeir. He couldn't help but fear at the notions of what they were doing to the poor dragon.

_He doesn't deserve any of this. This was all my fault._ Thorin thought wearily.

As they neared the place where his grandfather held the dragon, they noted that the walls vibrated and shook. Thorin cast a worried glance towards Solbrâ and she only shook her head. He frowned.

"This is probably the calmest the creature has been." She murmured. "Normally the halls quake at the rage of this dragon."

"What have they done to him?" Thorin demanded.

"Torture is all I've heard rumor of." The servant responded. "Thror was very furious when he realized that a dragon had taken over the mind of his grandson."

"Bryngeir did no such thing!" The Dwarf prince growled.

Solbrâ blinked. "H-h-he really…really is your friend then?"

Thorin gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes! And if we do not hurry, he will face a fate that he is wrongfully accused of."

The Dwarrowdam nodded and picked up the pace. Thorin followed as agilely as he could but his limbs still mocked him with their buzzing feeling. The female noticed this and managed to tuck his arm over her shoulders. Before Thorin could make any undignified protest, she held up a halting hand.

" _Melhekith,_ you suffer from a concussion. You will need the aid for a while."

With a glower and an irritable huff, Thorin inclined his head that he understood.

They continued down the hall until the tremors became unbearable and they stood in front of the throne hall's doors. Thorin slipped his arm off of the servant girl's shoulders. She looked at him confusedly.

"I must go alone. If anyone ever asks of you, tell them that you could not disobey my commands."

"Which I cannot." She pointed out.

Thorin gave a small smirk. "I like to think you helped me out of the goodness of your heart."

Solbrâ smiled slightly in return. "So do I."

The prince put a quick hand to her shoulder. "Now go, and thank you Lady Solbrâ for all your help."

With a quick nod of her head and a twirl of her skirts, she disappeared down the tunnel. Thorin exhaled nervously before bracing his hands up against the doors. With a shake of his head, he pushed the stone doors open.

He was bombarded with the sound of angry Dwarrow and his grandfather's bellows of disapproval. His father stood by Thror, watching as the soldiers carried what seemed to be black battering rams. The prince's heart shattered as he saw two teams of the royal guard alternating slamming the black rams into the sides of Bryngeir.

The dragon himself was in a horrific sight. His wounds that Thorin and Balin had so tediously tried to mend were brutally ripped open and freshly bleeding. His largest horn on the right sight of his head was broken in half, only the bottom piece remained. An entire gold plate scale on the tip of his nose was missing and the ones that ran along his back—the ones that had been sticking up—were either snapped or missing. On his chest were disgusting cracks on the gold plate armor that protected his breast. It stretched all the way from what would be the soft spot on his throat to the start of his torso. But that wasn't what disturbed Thorin. It was the fact that Bryngeir was tied down to a large slab of stone, his head and back covered and rankled by chains. The dragon's eyes were closed in pain, and menacing black smoke stormed from his nostrils.

Thorin's fists balled.

"Adâd! Adadûn!" He roared, storming towards his family.

Thror looked up in anger, but Thrain looked up in relief.

"Thorin! Thank Mahal, yer fine!" The father breathed, rushing towards the approaching Dwarf.

The dragon's eyes snapped open and he narrowed his vision on the youngest Dwarf. Thrain barely had time to push his son out of the way as a torrent of bright orange fire was blasted toward them. Thorin looked up in shook at Bryngeir. The emerald dragon's hazel eyes burned with betrayal and anger.

"You miserable Dwarf!" He yowled. "You traitor! I trusted yo—"

Both guard teams slammed into the dragon's side simultaneously. The dragon howled in pain, his claws clutching at the stone beneath him. Thror grunted before turning towards his son and grandson. He gestured his head towards Thrain.

"Leave us, _inúdoy._ "

Thrain growled. "'E's my son, an' I will stay fer whatever ye 'ave to say to him, Adâd."

Thror glared at his son.

"Take your family's matters elsewhere! I have half the mind to incinerate the lot of you!" Bryngeir snarled, followed by a pained grunt of another hit.

Thorin turned his glance to his grandfather. "What are you doing?"

"I am getting the answers I need from this demon in the only way that I can." Thrain answered lowly.

"By torturing, Adadûn?" Thorin snapped. "This is more than just some wild beast. He has a consciousness and a name."

The Dwarf prince failed to notice the emerald dragon's ears prick up at that statement.

Thrain gripped his son's shoulder. "Thorin, hush, yer in enough trouble as it—"

The raven-haired Dwarf shook his father's hand off. "What Adadûn is doing is wrong and he knows it! All he cares about is his precious treasure! Well, understand that Bryngeir had no intentions of stealing your gold! He saved my life and I owe him a debt! A _furkh ubkun_!"

That silenced the two elders. Thrain stood there shocked and speechless. Thror stood, boiling and seething in rage. Although, Thorin couldn't say he was exactly surprised when Thror slapped him across the face. The prince took it with only a wince.

"I may be your _Adadûn_ but I am also your _melhekhel_!" Thror thundered furiously. "And if I have to beat the dragon's presence from your mind again, then I will!"

Thorin made no move.

Thrain stepped away helplessly as his father reached for one of the guard's whips. He really didn't want to whip his own grandson, but he saw no other way. Thorin had to know that the dragon was not a friend but an enemy. Something who took over minds to get its way. Just as the King Under the Mountain raised his hand for the first lashing, there was a might roar.

"Enough!"

All three royals, and all the guards paused to look at the pained dragon. He shook. His eyes still narrowed, but glittered wetly. Thorin bit back a protest, whatever the dragon was going to do, it wasn't going to be good.

"I…release you from my service…" the dragon gasped. "I am no longer in need of your knowledge or your mind, Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror—ruler of the Dwarrowkind under the mighty mountain of Erebor. Be gone from my sight before I burn your treacherous hide."

Thrain's eyes widened.

Thror's dark mood disappeared entirely. He looked at his grandson and grasped his shoulders. His blue eye penetrated Thorin's.

"Are you free?" He demanded hopefully.

"Free from what?" The prince asked dazedly.

He met the gaze of Bryngeir. The dragon's eyes were shaking with the rest of his body. His lips were pulled tight and pursed. He lifted his chin to the best of his abilities and raised it in a proud form. Then, even with as much trouble as he did, he gave a small nod.

_Oh Bryngeir, what have you done?_ Thorin mourned before looking to his grandfather. "Yes…Adadûn"

Thror stared into Thorin's eyes for a while longer before nodding satisfied. He embraced his grandson. Tears seemed to spill from his eyes.

"You are no longer lost to us, _inúdoyith_."

Thorin barely leaned into his grandfather's hug. The man who had been about to lash him for befriending a dragon. It was then that it struck him. It really truly hit him.

Thror was gold sick.

He pulled away from his grandfather and tried to make a mask of awe to cover his facial expressions.

"Adadûn, how had you been able to rescue me?"

Thror sighed. "I feared your strange behavior about your hunt. It had me worried." He glanced nervously at the sea of gold on their right side.

_He wasn't worried for me, he was worried about his treasure!_ Thorin mentally raged.

"So I sent a raven to follow you."

"A raven?" Thorin choked, he looked to his father.

Thrain nodded in confirmation.

"That is how were able to get to you be the late nightfall. With the raven's help we were able to track you and Balin quickly." Thror continued.

"Balin!" Thorin remember. "Mahal, is Balin alright? Is he safe?"

Thrain answered. "He's fine, son. Jus' recuperatin' from the bang to the head he got too."

"But let's not worry about that, aye?" Thror said, turning his grandson towards the large doors. "I'm sure you are hungry. Come, let us go get you some lunch."

Thorin reluctantly allowed Thror to lead him. He glanced one last glance at Bryngeir before he was gone from his sight. The dragon looked just as betrayed and just as forlorn.

**~0oo0~**

There were other ways into the throne hall. Ways that would bypass the guards at the front doors, or the guards that kept the treasures safe. Secret tunnels that led past the king's room, which was nestled safely next to the throne hall. There were unknown passages all throughout the hall, and few knew how to get to and through them.

Thorin was one of those few.

As quietly as he pleased, he snuck in while the guards were switching watches and crept to where Bryngeir was sleeping. The poor dragon rasped awfully, and his chest heaved with sudden spasms every now and then. Thorin couldn't help but feel rotten. This was quite the mess.

"I know you're there." The dragon growled as the Dwarf tiptoed over the bridge.

"I wasn't sure if you were asleep or not." Thorin whispered.

The dragon snarled, his hazel eyes snapping open. "You will have wished I was."

"Bryngeir! I have no quarrels with you!" The prince protested quickly.

The dragon let out a mirthless reverberating laugh. "Oh, how foolish of me. I trusted you. I really, truly did. I don't know why but it was something that I felt was right. And look where it got me! Chained to rock, stuck in this blasted mountain, not knowing if I will live to see the next day or if my cousin will live on his own."

"If I could reverse all of this, I would!" Thorin stated remorsefully, trying to get closer.

Bryngeir glared at him. "And yet here you are, doing nothing. For a prince, you're a clot-pole."

Thorin's brows furrowed and his eyes darkened in offense.

"Yes, I said it." Bryngeir snapped. "I should've known better to trust a Dwarf."

"Do you think so little of me?" Thorin growled. "I've come to let you know that I have a plan to free you and here you are accusing me of not caring!"

The dragon blinked confusedly. "What?"

"Contrary to your belief," the Dwarf grunted as he jumped down from the low bridge to the rock where Bryngeir was tied to, "I consider you my friend. And my oath to you is still valid. I give you my service for I owe you a debt."

"Those words in…khuzdul… you said earlier to the king?"

The Dwarf nodded.

The dragon visibly sighed and deflated. "I must admit I feared I would be here until Thror killed me off. Or worse. I would be here until they found Draupneir and killed the both of us off."

"They won't find your cousin I promise. Because you're leaving tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"B-b-but how?" the dragon stammered, coughing a bit.

"I have a plan." Thorin admitted. "But it does involve you playing along."

"Let's hear it." Bryngeir grunted stiffly.

For about the next two hours, they argued the pros and cons of what should have been a very simple and easy plan. But as they talked more and more, they realized the heavy risks and consequences that would be entailed if they were caught. And as enlightening as the prospect of freedom was for Bryngeir, he really didn't want to gamble either one of their lives.

"I don't like it." Bryngeir voiced. "There's too much that could go wrong. We could be followed, or Thror would insist that you should do it here in the throne hall."

Thorin shook his head. "No. Dwarrow have a strong sense of justice."

At that the dragon rolled his eyes.

"If I demanded that it be done in the forest as a source of irony," The Dwarf continued, only slightly glaring at his friend. "Then it should be granted to me."

"Ah, 'should be' being the key words."

"You…are correct."

Bryngeir was silent for a while.

"It's not a good idea." He finally whispered. "There are so many ways it could go wrong."

Thorin sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I know it's not the best…but it's the only chance you've got right now Bryngeir."

"And if you were told to carry the deed out here in the throne hall…would you do it?"

"What?"

"If you grandfather told you to do it in front of everyone here in the throne hall, would you carry out?"

Thorin was quiet, collecting his thoughts before answering. "I was raised to following orders. I am trained in being not just a blacksmith but a warrior as well."

"I thought as much." Bryngeir nodded solemnly.

"I was not finished." Thorin lifted a brow. "But, if I have disobey an order to protect a friend from a harm they did not deserve, I will."

"You could be hurt." The dragon warned.

"He would not harm me." The Dwarf assured. "He could flog me, throw me in prison, or shave my beard and throw from Erebor—but he would not have me killed."

"Do not give your home for someone who is not your own kind." Bryngeir murmured.

"You are my friend. More than just a dragon." Thorin growled. "You think, feel, and perceive as any Dwarf would and I would be more than glad to call you my _nadadûn_."

"All because I saved you from Orcs, Thorin?" The dragon rasped.

"You did more than that, you've done nothing but been kind to me. You protected me, told me the stories of your kin, and shared with me the history of your blood lines. You are honest, and willing of the heart. I could ask no more from you other than you let me call you my _nadadûn._ "

"Brother-man?"

"Roughly. I'm basically calling a brother who is man enough among my kind."

Bryngeir didn't answer him. Thorin's nodded, understanding that the dragon was probably thinking of some way to refuse kindly. And he would accept that. He had brought upon the innocent dragon nothing but pain in this last day. He was bleeding and broken, with scales and horns missing, as well as being torn apart from his cousin.

" _Væng bró_ _ðír._ " The emerald dragon whispered softly.

"What?" Thorin choked, hearing such seemingly beautiful words coming from the dragon's rumbling voice.

" _Væng bró_ _ðír_. It means 'wing brother' in our language."

"Your language?"

"No one knows that the dragons have a language." Bryngeir mused. "It is probably even more secretive than your precious khuzdul. It is never spoken in an outsider's presence and is never spoke without another dragon near."

Thorin reached forward and placed his hand on the dragon's snout.

"I will free you." Thorin swore. " _Amhgand_."

Bryngeir's eyes seemed confused.

"You know its meaning if you think hard enough." Thorin said, before giving the dragon's pink skin on his snout a soothing pat. "You will be back in the skies in no time, Master of the Gilded Wings."

"Against my better judgment, I am trusting you again, Thorin." Bryngeir informed warningly.

"I know."

And with that the Dwarf left. He disappeared back into his tunnel where he could sneak back into his room. Tomorrow he would set his plan into motion. He would free the dragon.

**~0oo0~**

"Adadûn." Thorin greeted, stepping into the throne room at the first light of day.

Thror turned around with a grin on his face, gold slipping through his fingers. "Ah, Thorin I am glad to see you are once again your prompt self."

"I live to please." Thorin nodded with a slight bow.

"So what is that you wanted?" Thror asked, moving close to his grandson.

Thorin was trying not to be aware of his father's guard continuing that ill treatment of Bryngeir down below them. He needed to be focused. And he needed to be sincere.

"I wished to apologize for my horrid…actions." Thorin began.

Thror waved his hands dismissively. "Everything has been fixed has it not? You are yourself again and the dragon will pay for his crimes."

"That is why I am here, Adadûn." Thorin rumbled, putting on his best serious face and lowering his voice. "I would ask you to allow me to kill the dragon, in the forest where he found me. I want justice, and I see no better way than ending it where it all began."

"I myself and my army will accompany you." Thror murmured.

"Understandable given the treachery of the beast." Thorin agreed.

Thror looked at his son with wide, proud eyes. "You are serious of this then, Thorin?"

"My word as _melhekith._ " The younger nodded.

The King Under the Mountain placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Then it will be. _Mahathhôr shumûkh!"_

The guards stopped their tormenting of Bryngeir and turned towards their king.

Thror grinned. "Grab the black arrow! We shall end this dragon's life once and for all!"

The soldiers roared in pleasure.

Thorin braced a false smile.

" _Du bekar!_ " The Dwarrow shouted.

Then it was nothing but chaos. The Dwarrow kind rushed this way and that, gathering their armor and their weapons. Thorin was suddenly shoved into the fray as he was pushed toward Thror—who had almost magically appeared at the front gates of the mountain.

It took about a hundred strong Dwarrow to drag Bryngeir along the forest floor, but they prevailed. It took them all day to reach the spot that would've taken Balin and Thorin an hour or two to traverse. The sun was setting and darkness was beginning to settle. One of the soldiers shoved Thorin the ridiculously large black arrow. He clutched it in his hands as Thror clapped him on the shoulder.

"I wish your father were here with us to watch such an honor for you Thorin," Thror praised. "But alas, someone must lead the mountain in our absence."

"Yes." Thorin agreed shakily.

Thror gave him an encouraging push forward towards the dragon who lay limply on the ground. All fight had gone and the dragon looked at them with empty hazel eyes. Thorin shivered. Thankful that this was all a ruse. If Bryngeir had lost any of his fire, it would be a terrible sight. Thorin swallowed and straightened himself, dawning his princely air. With purposeful steps, he strode towards Bryngeir.

The dragon's eyes blink in acceptance.

With his loudest, sharpest war cry, Thorin thrust the arrow down like a spear. It pierced into the dragon's chest, past his scales. The Dwarf released the arrow and let it stick there like a skewer. The dragon raised its head in fury and roared terribly until suddenly it's neck went rigid. Slowly the head sank to the ground and dragon's eyes stared glassily into the nether.

The Dwarrow raised their weapons and shouted with blood thirsty glee.

"May you wither here, your body to shrivel, and may your rotting carcass be left for wolves, Wargs, Orcs and other follow beasts to tear apart!" Thorin growled before he turned to the others. "May I…may I have a moment?"

Thror grinned, clearly pleased that the dragon was dead. "Catch up when you are done."

The Prince waited until the army and his grandfather disappeared over the knoll. With a sigh, he turned back to Bryngeir. The dragon's eyes unglazed, a few oily tears slipping from the eye lids, and blinked angrily.

"You could've have been gentler with your stab?" He hissed.

Thorin rolled his eyes. "I couldn't find the spot where your scale stuck up."

"Well now it is _really_ sticking up."

"Stop your mewling. I got you free, didn't I?"

"That remains to be seen, I still have a good deal of chains on me."

Thorin groaned, _Yes, right._ He set himself to work quickly, unlocking the chains that Bryngeir could not handle or break himself. He needed to be quick, otherwise who knows if Thror would come back or not. Once he was done, he pried the arrow out from underneath Bryngeir's gold plate scale.

The dragon looked down disdainfully at himself as he stretched. "Look what they've done. They've shattered my chest scales. If I get into the smallest scuffle, they'll break apart."

"I'm sorry." Thorin offered.

"Not your fault." Bryngeir said, standing up and flaring his wings. "I will wait for nightfall to leave. Then I will find Draupneir and we will be gone for good."

"Not so fast…er,"

Bryngeir cocked his brow and looked at Thorin curiously. "I was wondering…if you would visit. Once a year."

"Once a year? Surely you would be watched carefully after this incident."

"Perhaps, but there is one day that is safe."

"When?"

"Durin's Day, the last day of autumn."

Bryngeir looked at the Dwarf skeptically. "Would you not be watched carefully on that day?"

Thorin shook his head. "No. Everyone gets so hammered they remember next to nothing of the events that happened during the day. While everyone is in their stupor, I can sneak out and visit."

"Another risk, and more sneaking." Bryngeir snarled bitterly.

"A friend is not a friend if they do not talk." Thorin retorted coolly. "This would be our only chance to see one another."

"I will think about it." The dragon purred.

"You'd better come." Thorin growled playfully, and yet he was weary.

"And you best be leaving." Bryngeir said with a quick gesture of his head. "Go on."

Thorin turned around and began to walk away. But before he left he looked over her shoulder and gave a small inclination of his head.

" _Nadadûn_."

Bryngeir gave a small wry smile. " _Væng bró_ _ðír_."

Thorin bit his lip before fully turning around. "Just…one more thing."

"Yes?" Bryngeir inclined his head to show that he was listening.

The Dwarf prince gave a terribly, terribly nervous exhale before raising his sword. Bryngeir didn't even have the opportunity to shout a protest as Thorin severed the braid at the left side of his head. The dragon's eyes widened and a look of mortification crossed his face. The Dwarf prince walked up to the dragon, his chin held proudly, and outstretched the hand that carefully cradled the black plait.

"This is the braid that declares my family. It is one that is easy enough to rebraid and re-bead. Take it Bryngeir. This is the debt that I owed you, now it would be clear to all your kin; that I am here for you and should they ever have a quarrel with your heritage, you have a brother who is willing to come and defend you."

The dragon was speechless.

Thorin proffered the braid again. "I never want to see you hurt again like the way you were the day after your race. Now, you are not only part Fire Drake and part Great Dragon, but you are also part Dwarf too."

With a shaking claw, Bryngeir reached out and took the plait from Thorin hands. It was lost in the large expanse in the palm of the dragon's claw, but it was there. The Dwarf prince gave the dragon a reassuring smile, knowing that if Thror ever found out—he really would be shaved and cast out of Erebor. But, Bryngeir didn't need to know that.

"I will treasure it." The dragon swore.

Thorin nodded as he rebraided his hair and tied it off with a small piece of his shirt that he had torn. "I know you will."

With a solemn and satisfied nod, Thorin made a last farewell before leaving. This time he did not look back. Because if he did, he probably wouldn't leave the dragon's side. He told himself he didn't have to worry. He would see Bryngeir on Durin's Day.

**~0oo0~**

The years came and went as they pleased. In fact, half a decade went by without much happenings. But, every Durin's Day, a certain Dwarf prince would sneak out of the mountains to meet his Great Dragon friend.

It had been quiet the surprise—Thorin had just turned twenty one—when Bryngeir revealed that he had been made king of the Great Dragons. As fate would have it, Smaug did enter their boarders and began a conquest on the smaller race of dragons. No one was willing to step up to the huge Fire Drake of the North, so Bryngeir did. It had been a close battle, for both Smaug and the emerald dragon came out seriously injured for a good period of time, but it had been won. It had been won by a dragon who was both Great Dragon and Fire Drake of the North.

Thorin was very pleased with the news and made it a point to say that he and the dragon's cousin had predicted the battle between the two dragons. Bryngeir would only scoff and swat playfully at the Dwarf's head.

Thorin would tell Bryngeir of the growing wealth of Erebor and the discovery of the Arkenstone. The dragon was very curious at the mention of the Heart of the Mountain and could not picture such a magnificent jewel. But then the prince would grow bitter as he continued to speak of how his grandfather had become to succumb to the gold. How he bore a terrible greed that was waivered to practically nothing. The emerald dragon would always incline his head and offer whatever little comforts to his friend he could. As Thorin grew older, and Bryngeir as well, they continued their clandestine meetings, until one day it all ended.

The day tragedy struck.

When Thorin turned twenty four, a great dragon, a Fire Drake of the North attacked Erebor. Having been outside of the mountain during the time of the initial attack, the raven-haired prince sought out the service that had once been offered to him by his friend the King of the Great Dragons.

No help came. Not from Bryngeir. Not from Draupneir. And certainly not the Elves of Greenwood who stood watching Smaug's rampage. Thorin learned that day, when dragon fire rained down upon his people, that few were trustworthy. And even fewer deserved to be called his brother. He learned that the hate his grandfather had once felt towards Bryngeir was justified. And he too, couldn't help the small seed of rage in his heart against his supposed 'wing brother'.

A week past and Thorin had come to the conclusion that Bryngeir had failed him. That the dragon had fallen to some greed of his own as well—as Thror did, as Thranduil did—and would not help the Dwarrow. But at the end of the week when Thorin was brooding alone, a Raven appeared. Its black feathers scorched and tattered its voice raw. It collapsed in a feet at the Dwarf prince's feet.

"From where have you come?" Thorin growled.

The Raven squawked thirstily. "I have come from far lands, east of the Blue Mountains—from the Icebay of Forochel."

"Who sends message for me from there?" Thorin demanded.

"A bronze dragon, he is known by his kin as Draupneir the DrakesBlood." The Raven answered.

_But he is not yet, one hundred._ The Dwarf thought before looking harshly at the Raven. "What did he want?"

"It seems that I am too late, for he bore warning of Smaug's tyrannical rampage. He claimed that the Fire Drake of the North would be heading for your kingdom."

"What is your name, Raven?"

"Thrïc, sir."

"Then tell me, Thrïc, what the dragon told you word-for-word." Thorin rumbled aggravated.

"I cannot do that." Thrïc apologized.

"Why not?" The prince demanded angrily.

"He was dying when he sent for me. Much of what he said was incomprehensible. His jaw had been broken, and it was almost completely unhinged if it were not for his skin." The raven explained.

Thorin looked at the creature with horror. "What?"

"This is essentially what the dragon said: 'my people are dead—Smaug's terrible army has swept through the lands of the Great Dragon without mercy. I am the last to die, we are all gone—'"

"No! That cannot be right!" Thorin yelled, thankful that he was alone.

"Hush I wasn't done." The Raven crowed irritably. "'My cousin, Bryngeir, went to strengthen your kind, Thorin. But he did not make it past Carn Dûm. He went to intercept the Fire Drake general. Smaug challenged him one last time for the right of king. My cousin did not live through the fight. The great general of the Fire Drakes tore his shattered chest scales and pierced his heart. I went there to retrieve his body. Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings is dead. So I warn you now, Thorin—there is no aid from our kind because there is no race of Great Dragons. Gather your kin and _flee_.'"

Thorin stared at the raven mutely, his voice caught in his throat.

Thrïc cocked his head to the side. "It was awful to be there, in the Icebay of Forochel. So many dragon bodies. So many dead to freeze at claws the merciless ice. I am sorry I arrived too late...for both races."

The Dwarf nodded slowly. _Bryngeir was dead?_

"May I take my leave now?"

Thorin nodded again.

The Raven bowed his head solemnly before flying away.

From where he was sitting, Thorin sank to his knees, the ground hitting them hard. With a mournful cry he slammed his fists against the dirt. His blue eyes squeezed tight as he tried not to image the cracks scales that had been caused by him, to be torn apart by the monster dragon that destroyed his home. He couldn't help but feel the tears burn his skin, trailing down his cheeks. The dragon he had gotten to know the past five years, was all but wiped from the earth. And there he had been, trying to hate Bryngeir when all he was doing was trying to help.

Gingerly, through his hiccupping, he reached under his layers of hair to feel the shorter strand of black locks. The ones where he had cut his braid and given to the dragon. His eyes shut closed again before he stood up stiffly, and began to walk away with his face grim set. He would lead his people as he knew Bryngeir had from his stories. He would work for them, and bring them what he could to help them through their exile. He would not let his friend's death be one that was forgotten.

They wandered their away from their homeland for years. Thorin, the exile prince of Erebor, took work wherever he could find it—to help provide for his people. For his father took care of Thror, and Thror did nothing but sulk at his loss of gold. Thorin worked hard in the smithies of Men, earning keep for food and to send to his younger siblings who had been staying in Ered Lûin at the time of Smaug's attack. And though many years were burned by in his mind, he could not stop thinking about how things would be different if they had received aid. If the Great Dragons had lived. If Draupneir had lived. If Bryngeir had lived.

All too well did Smaug's attack haunt his memories and mind. It was the Fire Drake's fault. It was his fault that so many were dead. Including, the brother that was never his.

So the prince of Erebor, Great Dragon's brother, never forgave the crimes of the King of the Fire Drakes.

And he never forgot them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus is the end of the Prologue! Yay! We'll be actually getting to the meat of the story next chapter...


	4. Wizards and their Confoundery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf just loves to tick people off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Töframaður: Wizard  
> Hvað Valar varstu að hugsa, Töframaður?: What in Valar were you thinking, Wizard?  
> Uppeldi þetta mörgum Dvergarnir!: Bringing this many Dwarves!  
> Þu veist nákvæmlega af hverju—: you know very well—  
> Ég sver að ég mun drepa þessi Töframaður!: I swear I will kill that Wizard!  
> Ég drep dreki konungur líka!: I'll kill that dragon king too!  
> Þorinn er lifandi…! : And Thorin is alive...!  
> Ég sver að Töframaður verður næsta máltíð mína!: I swear I will make that Wizard my next meal!  
> Drekkartungu: Dragontongue

"Töframaður! Töframaður! Töframaður!"

The roar echoed across the mountains, its pain all too well coloring the cry. The grey Wizard, who had been riding to Rivendell, stopped. Coming from the North of the Ettenmoors, was a large shadow in the sky. It flew quickly but haphazardly, its right side dipping down constantly. Gandalf jumped off of the speckled horse he had been riding, and drew his sword.

He knew what that shape was, it was a dragon. Word had been spreading all over Middle Earth that the dragons had been massing, becoming more violent and aggressive. It was time to end this all. The dragons needed to be slain.

"Töframaður!" The voice shrieked again.

Gandalf looked around, looking for the owner of the voice. Only then did the Wizard realize that there was one creature close enough, or loud enough, to speak. He watched, with some awe and caution as the bronze and black dragon landed before him, shifting its weight on two legs. Its right hind leg was severed, a small stub of the thigh remaining as dry crimson blood caked the limb. His left foreleg was clutched close to his chest, as if carrying something.

"Töframaður, thank everything…that I have found you…" The dragon panted, his breath hitching in agony.

"Who are you?" Gandalf demanded, warily leaning on his staff.

"My name is Draupneir," The dragon said, before coughing. "But that is little of importance. I…we, the race of my people, we need your help, Töframaður."

Gandalf cocked his brow. "And why, would I help a dragon?"

"I expected one of the great Istari to know the difference between a Fire Drake of the North and a Great Dragon."

The Wizard sucked in his breath. "Do you mean to say that your kind has come down from the Bay of Forochel?"

"Quite the opposite." Draupneir corrected, "we have fled to it. The Fire Drakes have gathered together and seek to destroy my kind."

"Surely, you are the greater of the two races."

"United, we would be."

Gandalf tilted his head. "And why are you not united now, hm?"

"The Fire Drake's leader have…they have wounded our king, far beyond the hopes of our repair." Draupneir said, clutching his claw a bit tighter.

"I fail to see where I can become involved Master Dragon, how may I help?"

"We need you to safe house our King."

Gandalf's eyes widened and he spluttered.

The bronze dragon's claw lowered, until it was in front of the grey Wizard. The fingers opened slowly, to reveal a tiny naked form, curled up. The creature had curly auburn hair, and large, furry feet. His pail skin was matted in blood, and his chest was nothing but raw skin.

"Many of our elders died using their magic to do this to him."

"I have never heard of such a thing." Gandalf murmured, running his hand soothingly along the shivering creature's arm.

"Smaug, the King of the Fire Drakes, will kill anyone who knows of our King's whereabouts." Draupneir growled. "And he will finish the deeds that he had set out to do if he finds him. You must keep him secret and you must keep him safe. No one must know who he truly is."

"So he is a dragon then?" Gandalf asked, looking up at the sad gold eyes on a bronze and black dragon.

Draupneir looked up forlornly. "Yes. He is a dragon. Our elders thought it would be wise to give him the gift of transformation—being able to change from this form to his dragon form. But you must not let him. Smaug will know the instant his scent is caught to the wind, and all will have been for not. Our King is the last hope for our race. He must be kept alive."

"Your words are more than those of allegiance to a king." Gandalf observed.

The dragon sighed. "He is my cousin. I would see him safe to the end of time, if I could. But I can no longer do so."

He lay the small creature on the ground, before the Wizard. Gandalf took the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped the small being in it. The tiny creature groaned in pain, eyelids fluttering, before stilling again.

"He is badly wounded." Gandalf muttered, looking up to see the bronze dragon leaving. "Wait, I do not know his name, and it would be more than likely good to know it!"

The dragon looked back for just a minute, then spread his wings. They flapped good and hard as he thrust himself into the air. The air waivered, the wing beats like concussions.

"His name is Bryngeir, Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings."

**~0oo0~**

Bilbo woke with a start, his hand clutching his chest. He breathed heavily as sweat poured down his face and the tears gathered in his eyes. Grunting, frustrated, he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. Clutching at the covers, he forced himself to calm down.

It had been a long time since he had last dreamed.

Dreamed of anything really.

But what had happened a hundred and seventy one years ago had not entered his mind in a truly long while.

Sighing, he got out of bed and drew his shirt off. Looking in the mirror, he placed his hand upon the large patch of raw skin that stretched the left side of his hip to the ride side of his shoulder. The skin was irritated and red, pulsing along with his shaky breaths. The hobbit shook his head, trying to clear any thought of the horrible, horrible night. So many had died that day, and if he had just been a little faster—stronger, better—many would undoubtedly be alive right now.

"Thorin would be alive right now." He murmured to himself, stretching his bed sore arms and legs.

With one last weary shake of his head, he stumbled into the bathroom to freshen up. The water made his skin prickle with gooseflesh as he washed his face, arms and hands. Grabbing the towel, he gave a relieved sigh as he wiped away the droplets from his skin. Stepping back into his room, Bilbo decided to choose a simple white blouse, a pair of brown trousers, and a gold waistcoat

With a satisfied nod, he opened the door from his bedroom and walked into the rest of his smial.

_It wasn't always just yours._ A little voice in his head reminded him.

"No, of course not." Bilbo murmured, touching the two portraits that rested on the fire places. He could still hear Belladonna's musical voice and her soothing words of understanding and comfort. He could still feel Bungo's reassuring hand and his scratchy practical voice. He missed them.

He missed _all_ of them.

"That's enough self-pity for one day, I think." Bilbo grunted, grabbing his pipe from the mantle. "A nice smoke before breakfast should do me good."

With a new purpose in his step, Bilbo walked out of his smial into the sunny day. Hobbiton was already flushed with busybodies as the scurried about their tasks for the day. Bilbo set himself down on the wooden bench, looking back for a brief second to admire his newly painted door, before settling his back comfortably against the wood. Grabbing a match from his pocket and striking it, he set himself to enjoy Old Toby, a personal favorite for his pipe smoking. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and listened.

Birds twittered. The flowers sang as the breezed pushed them gently into a dance. The Brandywine River that twisted close to Hobbiton burbled and gurgled with life. The Hobbits themselves laughed, sang, and talked as the goings on of the day continued with little consequences. Bilbo smiled a bit as the sun's rays fluttered across his face, warming the skin that still loved every sensation that scales could not feel. Although he frowned when a bit of the pipe smoke blustered into his face. His nose twitched at the sudden ashes in his nose. The he furrowed his brow, the sun rays had be shaded, it had gotten considerably cooler. Not to mention he could hear another person.

"Excuse me, but I do believe you are blocking the sun." Bilbo grumbled, not opening his eyes, although remembering his manners and gave a quick, "Good morning."

"What do you mean?" he said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

The Hobbit sighed, still not opening his eyes. "All of them at once, Gandalf. Now, _good morning."_

The Wizard gave an indignant huff. "To think I would live to be 'good morning' by Belladonna Took's son as if I were selling buttons at the door!"

"You might as well be." Bilbo snorted, cracking an eye opening. "And you and I both know I am not Belladonna's son."

"Both she and Bungo thought so." Gandalf barked. "Even though they knew the truth."

Bilbo nodded and closed his eye. "You must forgive me, I'm a bit…I supposed depressed today."

"Oh?" Gandalf pondered, leaning against his staff. "And why is that?"

"I dreamed last night." The Hobbit said, inhaling on his pipe afterwards.

"Most would consider dreaming a good thing, my dear Hobbit." Gandalf chuckled.

"I'm not most people though, aren't I?"

"Um, no. But that does not necessarily mean anything."

"Why are you here?" Bilbo demanded, standing, up his eyes lazing open.

"Could I not have just come by for a visit?" The Wizard asked.

The Hobbit snorted. "Knowing you? Not a chance, Wizard."

"You know me too well." Gandalf bowed slightly.

"I should hope so. One hundred and seventy one years has been plenty of time."

"One would think."

The Hobbit titled his head. "So, what are you really here for, Gandalf?"

"I'm looking for someone go on an adventure."

Bilbo couldn't help the loud laugh that rose up in his chest. "I don't think you'll find anyone on this side of Bree to go with you…although you might have some luck with a Brandybuck or a Took, after all—it worked so well when you took Belladonna with you."

"My dear fellow, I'm quite hurt by that statement." The Wizard placed a hand over his heart, his smile never failing.

"It's true." Bilbo affirmed with a nod of his head and a swing of his pipe.

Gandalf leaned forward. "Actually, I was looking for someone a tad more…dragon hearted."

The Hobbit's grin disappeared immediately. "Then you are looking in the wrong place."

"Oh come now Bilbo! Back in your day you would've jumped upon the chance to go on an adventure!"

"And look where an adventure got me! Look at where I've landed, Wizard!"

"Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings," Gandalf grouched. "You have landed in a very comfortable positon of being a Hobbit of good wealth and respect. You have a warm home and many people who care for your well-being, despite you being an oddity."

"Do not call me by that name, Gandalf." Bilbo sighed. "I don't deserve that name."

"My dear Bryngeir," Gandalf exhaled. "I think an adventure is definitely what you need. It will serve as some amusement for the both of us, yes?"

"No, Gandalf." Bilbo shook his head. He walked over to the fence and opened the mail box. He took out the contents and closed the small hatch. With a lethargy that seemed to be wariness, Bilbo walked towards the door. When he spoke, his voice was hollow and agitated. "There will be no adventures here today. Nor any day. I am quite done with adventuring. Good morning."

Bilbo opened the door before slamming it closed. He waited a little bit, in hopes that his friend had gotten the hint and gone off to go bother someone else. He inched a bit to the window only to be met with a large blue eye staring at him. He hid behind the door again.

"Go away Gandalf!" He shouted.

The Wizard hummed and all went quiet again.

Bilbo waited before peering out again to see the retreating point hat. With a relieved sigh, the Hobbit went back into his room. He grabbed the blue coat that waited for him on his bed, and walked out again, struggling to get his arms through the proper holes. Once he decided that he looked decent, he went to the mantle place and grabbed a small oak box that rested there.

He looked at the box with a sorrowful fondness. Carved on the box was a dragon and a Dwarf. Gandalf had it specially made thirty two years ago, after the Fell Winter. Bilbo could still hear the screams of the Hobbits, calling and begging for help. He could still see Bungo and Belladonna—foolish, foolish Bungo and Belladonna trying to protect the others. And he could still see the fire that ate away at the screaming wolves' fur. That was the best that he had been able to do. Nothing else.

Bilbo blinked and the vision was gone. Opening the box, he pulled out the black braid that rested silently at the bottom. His fingers tightened around the hair as he placed it gently in the coat pocket. If Thorin were a live, he would say it was a precautionary to other Hobbits that he had a brother that would be there if they ever needed his assistance. But, Thorin had made that promise to a dragon, not a Hobbit.

"And I doubt, if he were still living, he wouldn't want to call me his brother." He muttered as he put the box back on its spot. "I left him to suffer at the claws of Smaug."

He walked back towards the door and grabbed the basket that was there. With one last look behind him, Bilbo walked back outside. The sun met him happily as he walked down the little dirt path. All thoughts of unpleasant adventures were soon forgotten as he enjoyed his stroll down the dirt path.

"Mr. Bilbo! Mr. Bilbo!"

The Hobbit looked to the side to see a gaggle of children racing towards him. He grinned. Of all the things in the Shire, Bilbo loved the children the best. They were such happy, merry things; no worry in their life. He envied them.

"Why hello Poppy, Rosie, Peregrin, and Meriadoc!" He beamed at them, crouching down a bit. "What are you rascals up to?"

"Play with us, Mr. Bilbo, please?" Poppy begged while Pippin and Merry pulled on the sleeves of his coat.

"You must!" Pippin piped.

"Aye, no backing out Mr. Bilbo!" Merry added, grinning widely.

Rosie just followed with a big smile on her face.

"Alright you hooligans, what would you have me play?" Bilbo asked, allowing the small children to lead on.

"Play conkers!" Rose squeaked when he asked.

"Conkers, again?" The old Hobbit mused.

"You are the very best and it's so fun to watch!" Poppy complemented, skipping along the path.

"Besides, I think I could beat you!" Pippin put in helpfully.

Bilbo shook his head. "Oh really?"

"Umhm!"

"Well then, I suppose I just have to play now. Have you hooligans got the tree and the hoops set up?"

The three fauntlings nodded their head eagerly.

"Okay then, let's play."

The children led him to a tree that relatively far from the smials of Hobbiton. Bilbo nodded to them and set down his basket. Pippin stepped up and took off his cardigan so it wouldn't snag on the branches. The tall pine that towered before them was covered with steel hoops that hung innocently on the branches.

"We didn't go to the tippity-top, 'cause you said we shouldn'." Merry pointed out.

"Good lad." Bilbo praised. "Last thing we need is an injured one of you. Alright, Peregrin, are you ready?"

"Yes sir!"

Bilbo walked up to the tree with the fauntling. "Need help to the first branch?"

Pippin shook his head before scurrying up the trunk. Bilbo gave a loud laugh, before jumping to the first branch, nimbly latching on. He followed the smaller Hobbit on the opposite side of the tree. He enjoyed playing this game with the little ones. The point of conkers was to grab all the hoops with a period of three minutes. The person who gained the most won. It was a quick little game, that didn't take much time but it took much agility and strength. The children had the agility. He had the strength.

By the end of the second minute, Bilbo had collected more than half of the steel hoops that hung from his arm. The children down below were calling out both his and Pippin's name with encouragement. When Rosie had called out that the time was up, Bilbo had acquired five more hoops, and had begun to crawl down the tree. He was fairly pleased with himself, and was thoroughly unwound from this morning. That is until a startled scream interrupted his concentration.

He looked with horror to see that Peregrin had fallen from the tree. Without thinking, Bilbo dropped the hoops and jumped. His arms wrapped around the small fauntling as they fell. The wind blasted through his pointed ears and his stomach dropped. He forced himself to calm and to slowly turn as he fell. The children on the ground shouted in fear. He toned them out and focused on timing their descent. When the moment was exactly right, he gave one last turn and landed heavily, but squarely on his feet.

Pippin released a pent up sigh. "Mr. Bilbo."

Bilbo winced, his knees shouting out in pain. His body wasn't used to landings like that, and his stubby legs certainly weren't either. He set the fauntling down with a shaky pant.

"Well, I do believe that was enough fun for one day, don't you agree?"

The fauntlings all bobbed their heads in unison. Bilbo agreed wholeheartedly.

"Alright you rapscallions, go on and enjoy the rest of your day." He sent them a wink. "I won't tell your mums if you promise not to tell them I jumped from the tree."

"Why?" Poppy asked.

Bilbo picked up his basket and rested it in the crook of his arm. "It's not a very Hobbit-y thing to do, jumping from trees."

"Fair." Merry mumbled, grabbing Pippin's hand reassuringly.

"Well I'm off, you little ones don't go further than this, okay?"

"M'kay, Mr. Bilbo!"

Bilbo gave them a quick wave before continuing on his way. His arms were shaking awfully and he couldn't help but feel irritated. If he were a dragon, all he would've had to do watch reach out and catch the boy. Better yet, let the lad stand on his snout to catch all of the conker's hoops. He hated it sometimes, feeling so powerless in this body. There was almost no strength behind it. Solely kindness and softness.

"Good morning, Mr. Bilbo!"

Bilbo looked up to see an older Hobbit, Lionel Chubb, wave him over to the beginnings of the market. With a nod, Bilbo headed over. Lionel held a brown sack to the older Hobbit.

"Here you are Mr. Bilbo. Your fresh cuts just like normal."

Bilbo gave the bag a sniff, the stench of raw meat pulling at his nose. Had he been in his original form, the smell would have more than likely been savory. But, being a Hobbit, it was just putrid. He nodded and handed the coin over to Lionel. The Hobbit nodded his thanks and began tending to the rest of his needs in his stall. Bilbo began to walk further into the market place, stopping at every necessary food stall. He bought plenty of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, and fish. By the end of his grocery shopping, half of the day had passed. Pleased with his productive morning, he went back to Bag End with a bit of a skip in his step.

The rest of his day consisted of reorganizing his pantry, reading, cleaning out the fire place, eating his two midday meals, reorganizing the pantry again because he didn't like how he did it the first time, and then helping Hamfast Gamgee out in his garden. It was gritty business, working in the dirt; but it was a job that was helpful for him. He got to use his hands to pull at the weeds and whatnot, allowing him to believe that for one more time they were claws. Planting the tiny seedling in the ground also felt good.

Once he and Hamfast had bid each other a farewell, Bilbo went in to wash up. After that, he seemed thoroughly satisfied with the day as he dressed in his night clothes. He pulled the patched up robe, transferring the braid from his coat to his robe pocket. Stepping out of his room, he entered the kitchen and began cooking his dinner.

His nostrils flared as the smells of freshly made biscuits and the charring fish reached his nose. One thing he loved about being a Hobbit was that he got to enjoy the fineries of food. Dragons ate their food raw. Hobbits had to cook their meals, and well…they were probably more renowned for their food skills than even the Elves could hope for.

He made the place settings, and took the fish off the stove, plate in hand. He licked his lips as he saw the fish sitting happily upon the salad. Then he smirked.

_Well, happily for me, not for you._ His mind practically chirped as he sat down.

Tucking in his napkin, he reached over to pick up his fork when…

…someone knocked at the door.

Bilbo hesitated, sure that he had imagined the knock. But when the pounding continued he realized it was not so. Grumbling he got up and threw the napkin down with a bit of agitation. Walking to the door, he pulled it open expecting to see some sort of fleeing Hobbit lad who thought they had the guts to interrupt his meal. Instead, he was very, very thunderstruck to see a Dwarf standing on his doorstep.

The Dwarf was rather large, blue tattoos in khuzdul mapped all over his bald head. He had a rather impressive beard that looked almost blue. The rest of him could only be described as intimidating, from his large ominous cape, to his sturdy looking knuckle dusters.

"Dwalin, at your service." The Dwarf said with a bow.

"Bryn—" He stopped himself, he had only had Dwarf's greet him once and that had been back…well it had been back. "Bilbo Baggins, at yours."

He was vaguely aware that he was wearing all of his night clothes and that his robe was wide open. Flustered, he scrambled to tie it up. Dwalin stepped in, paying little mind to that.

"Sorry, but do we know each other?" Bilbo asked, squinting at the face for any recognition from his life as a dragon; the only thing that seemed familiar was the nose.

The Dwarf actually glared at him. "No. Which way, laddie?" He demanded, taking off his cloak and tossing it to Bilbo.

"I'm, sorry—what?" He asked, fumbling with the cape that covered his head.

"The food." The Dwarf snorted, searching about. "He said there'd be food, and lots of it."

Bilbo couldn't really do anything but helplessly follow the Dwarf as he found his way to the kitchen. He just plopped down into the chair that waited at the spot at the table where the Hobbit's dinner was. Bilbo's brow furrowed at he watched Dwalin as he ate his dinner. His eye twitched. If he wanted, he could incinerate this Dwarf righ—

"This, this is good." Dwalin grunted, swallowing down the fish head he had bit off. "Have you got any more?"

Bilbo blinked, and instantly forced his temper to cool. "Right, um…yes."

He picked up the freshly backed tray of biscuits. Well, he looked at it, grabbed one, shoving it into his free pocket and handed the rest to the Dwarf. Dwalin didn't hesitate and grabbing the plate and stuffing his face with a biscuit.

That unnerved Bilbo. He cleared his throat.

"Well, you see, I wasn't entirely expecting a guest today but—"

He wasn't interrupted by another knock at the door. Bilbo looked up his eyes wide. The Dwarf shot him another dark look.

"That'd be the door."

Bilbo grumbled, before spinning around and marching straight up to the door. When he pulled it open, he stumbled back, a fit of coughs racking his lungs. His hand clutched at his chest where his burning raw skin throbbed. The white haired Dwarf looked at him with alarm.

"You alright, lad?" He questioned, a steadying hand reaching out towards him.

Bilbo gagged. "Oh yes, quite fine! Stunned by…by…by the beauty of the night air, that's all! Would you look at the beautiful evening!"

The Dwarf looked behind him and nodded. "That is certainly agreeable; although I think it might rain later. Oh yes! Balin, at your service."

The Hobbit forced himself to breathe again. "B-b-bilbo at yours."

The Dwarf walked in with a kind smile and that was the only thing that stopped the Hobbit from having a panic attack. He was barely aware of Balin and Dwalin greeting each other as brothers before the stalked into his pantry. His chest felt as if it were on fire, and he groped at the braid that was hidden in his pocket, his hand shaking. Balin had survived Smaug's attack on Erebor?

There was another knock at the door and he numbly walked over and opened it. Two rather you Dwarves stood there, one blonde and one brunette.

"Fili—"

"—and Kili—"

"At your service." The two chimed in tandem, both bowing over dramatically.

Bilbo snapped out of his stupor. "Nope, no more Dwarves." He slammed the door.

Kili's boot caught in the way. "Oh no! It hasn't been cancelled has it?"

"What? Nothing's been cancelled!" Bilbo growled, his temper raging back again as the pain in his chest flickered again.

The brunette sighed in relief and pushed the door open. "Well that's a relief!"

He and his brother strolled in with not a care in the world. Fili grinned and tossed Bilbo his double swords.

"Careful just had 'em sharpened."

"I know how to handle a sword!" Bilbo snapped, setting them down carefully in the umbrella corner.

Kili grinned. "Do you now? That makes things easier for us…hm, I must say Mister Boggins, your house is quite nice! Did you do it yourself?"

"Um…no." was all Bilbo spluttered out.

He watched as the two joined the other two Dwarves in the large dining area. Bilbo groaned and raked his hands through his hair.

_No, no, no, no, no—this is not good!_ The Hobbit thought anxiously. _Not good at all! Especially with Balin here…what if he recognizes my voice or, the fur on my feet…or good heavens the box on the mantle!_

He rushed to the living area only to be stopped by another knock at the door. He fumed. This was quite enough. Four Dwarves? Fine, he could live with that; but not another Dwarf more. He stormed to the door, swung it open, only to jump back at the cascade of Dwarves landing on his door mat. Oh now fate was just being cruel.

Gandalf peeked in under the lintel.

Bilbo tried to control his breathing as his eyes narrowed. "Gandalf."

The Wizard grinned. "Ah Bilbo!" He looked down at the tangle of Dwarves. "Our host."

The Dwarves on the floor cheered.

The Hobbit lunged forward and grabbed the Wizard's cloak, dragging him back. "We need to talk, now."

He brought Gandalf to his hallway and stood in front of him. His arms were crossed and a very unhappy frown across his face. Gandalf sighed.

" _Hvað Valar varstu að hugsa, Töframaður_?" Bilbo growled out. " _Uppeldi þetta mörgum Dvergarnir_ _!_ _Þu veist nákvæmlega af hverju_ _–_ "

"Bilbo, I can't understand when you speak Drekkartungu." The Wizard puffed out.

Bilbo snarled. "How dare you bring Dwarves into my house without even asking me? Do you realize what is at stake?"

"Nothing but your temper, I'm afraid." Gandalf answered evenly.

"Hush up! I'm the one in distress right now!" The Hobbit snapped.

"Why? Besides their…eccentricity, they are quite a jolly bunch."

"Gandalf! I knew one of them!" Bilbo hissed between his teeth.

This seemed to catch the Istari's attention. "Which one?"

"Balin." The Hobbit answered lowly. "He was there…he was one of _the ones_."

Gandalf hummed. "Then it is no coincidence then."

"I have a feeling,Töframaður, that this was never a coincidence." Bilbo retorted to the retreating form of Gandalf.

Frowning he went back in to the front parlor to see the Dwarves were raiding his pantry. The next hour consisted of him getting changed so he was more suitable for company—a Hobbit had to keep his image—watching all twelve Dwarves eat everything in his food supplies, drink all of his ales, and then toss Belladonna's fine china around like frisbees! They even had the audacity to sing a charming—admittedly clever—song about how he hated that they were messing with his things.

Honestly. His fine eating utensils were pure silver! Did they know of the troubles that it took him to sniff out such well-wrought metal?

At the end of the song, a long solemn knock drummed the door.

"He is here." Gandalf declared gravely.

Bilbo looked up as did all the rest of the Dwarves. To his surprise they grew somber and solemn. Gandalf grinned and nodded to Bilbo for him to follow. Bilbo followed the tall Istari to the door, where he gently pulled it open.

Bilbo's world stopped there.

His chest burned as if it had been branded. As if Smaug's claws tore it open again. His hazel eye glazed as he watched the Dwarf regally enter. His raven hair had been grayed by probably both time and stress. Instead of a fur black vest, he wore a long royal blue coat that was lined with what looked like to be a very heavy elk's skin. He wore a simple armored tunic, and a belt with the crest of Durin. His pants were road worn, and his boots had iron lining the toes.

In every way he looked the king he was supposed to be.

The Dwarf looked intrigued. "So, this is the Hobbit."

"Bilbo, might I introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield." Gandalf introduced, giving the Hobbit a warning glance.

Bilbo murmured out the first thing that escaped his mouth. "You survived."

That set Thorin on red alert.

The weight and reality of what he said came tumbling down and Bilbo babbled to fix it. "I mean the road! The road through Hobbiton! Why, practically every new traveler who passes by can't find their way through the mazes of paths here. I don't know how we even do it! I guess it's because we've lived here our whole lives and the like but… I meant that you survived the twisted paths…yes…that's it…"

Thorin scratched his chin, the look of wonder instantly gone from his face. He turned to Gandalf. "I thought you said this place was easy to find. I lost my way…twice."

Bilbo blinked. Did Thorin just really…ignore him?

"Well, as Bilbo has so _eloquently_ described, Hobbiton is a bit of a puzzle to those who are not her inhabitants." The Wizard grumbled, cocking his brow towards the Hobbit.

Thorin returned his attention to Bilbo. "Tell me Master Baggins, what is your weapon of choice, axe or sword?"

Oh, that just irritated the humanity out of Bilbo. Thorin knew that any answer the Hobbit had to give would never satisfy a Dwarf; it was a sly question. So, instead of being cowed by the underhanded question, he stepped up until he was standing chest to chest with the Dwarf, hands on his hips. He was pleased that the smug grin had been replaced by a furrowed brow of confusion.

"Listen well, Thorin Oakenshield," He rumbled. "I am good at conkers, bu I also have quite a bit of skill in everything—so know I am handy in a pinch."

Then he backed off. He forced himself to become mild manner Bilbo again, and not hot-tempered, I-got-stuck-in-a-Hobbit's-body-so-don't-toy-with-my-patience Bryngeir. The Dwarves had gone quiet in the other room. Both Gandalf and Thorin seemed frozen with a bit of shock. Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Um, there's a bit of food left, the others are right this way." He almost ran away, back to the kitchen. He fumbled with the bowls on the counter top, searching for a clean one. He grabbed one finally and poured what would've been tomorrow's elvensies into the bowl. A nice potato soup. He also poured a fresh mug of ale and grabbed a spoon. Flushed and flustered he rushed back into the dining area, and said nothing as he handed the raven haired Dwarf his dinner. Thorin only inclined his head in thanks.

Bilbo stepped back and watched them mutely.

_Thorin's alive. Thorin's alive. He survived Smaug's attack to Erebor. I thought everyone had died._ Thorin's _alive._

He was vaguely aware of the events that passed while the Dwarves talked, including how Gloin mentioned that they would be needing a burglar.

"An expert at that, I suppose…" He murmured absent mindedly, looking down upon the map of the mountain that he believed to have fallen so long ago.

"So are you?" Gloin asked.

That snapped Bilbo out of his thoughts. "Am I what?"

Gloin and Oin cheered. "You hear that, he says he's an expert!"

"What, no! I haven't stole a thing in my life." The Hobbit protested in panic.

Balin sighed. "I'd have to agree with him. Such gentlefolk do not belong in the wild. Nor do they make fine burglaring material."

"He speaks sense!" Bilbo piped up.

The other Dwarves somehow broke into chaos about that.

Suddenly Gandalf shot up, his figure looming, the shadows stretching.

"If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!" Gandalf shouted, before calming himself and returning to normal.

_You think_ that _is a party trick?_ Bilbo thought bitterly.

The Wizard continued. "Hobbits are quick and light on their feet—they can generally go about unnoticed. And while the dragon—"

"I'm sorry, dragon?" Bilbo squeaked, fearing that Gandalf had given away his secret.

"Smaug the Terrible, keep up lad!" Nori shouted.

The Hobbit's chest began to throb again.

"And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of Dwarf, the smell of a Hobbit would be very foreign to him." Gandalf continued.

The Dwarves were quiet as they wrapped their heads around this. Bilbo fumed and shook his head furiously. He was going to fry that Istari. The first to speak was Thorin.

"Give him a contract."

Bilbo shook. "No, no, no—that's really not neces—oof!"

Thorin shoved the paper rudely into the Hobbit's chest. Bilbo grappled with it for a moment before unfolding the huge thing. His eyes skimmed the paper as he read through quickly. Laceration? Sounded familiar. Incineration? He looked at his pink fleshy skin; yes definitely flammable.

"Incineration?" He sighed, looking at Gandalf with a 'really' look.

Gandalf grinned.

"Aye, he'll melt the flesh off your bones." A Dwarf—Bofur—added helpfully.

Bilbo tilted his head back, looking at the roof.

"Think furnace with wings." He continued.

Bilbo shook his head, the image of a red dragon coming at him with all his might and fury replaying in his mind.

"One big breath and poof! You're nothin' more than a pile of ash!" Bofur finished with a dramatic flair of his arms.

_Bilbo clawed at the other dragon, trying to push him off his body, but the larger had already hooked his claws into the center of his shattered chest plates and—_

"You alright laddie?" Balin asked genuinely worried.

Bilbo looked at them, his eyes wide. "I need air."

Without a moment to spare, he ran down the hall, turning to the door that led towards the back yard. The Dwarves were quiet looking to Thorin. He shook his head, thinking what would Gandalf ever see in such a weak little creature? He turned to the Wizard.

"I cannot guarantee his safety during this journey."

Gandalf inclined his head. "Understood."

"I will not be held responsible for his life should it come to it." The Dwarf king continued.

The Wizard closed his eyes. And he had hoped for a much better reunion between the two long separated friends. "I understand."

Thorin tilted his head suspiciously. "Do you?"

They were all startled by the large scream that echoed through Bag End. The Dwarves plus one Wizard were up in an instant, their weapons drawn. They rushed down the hall to the back door that they had heard Bilbo go through. They rushed out, expecting to find some sort of evil Hobbit, or the like.

Instead they found a very, very furious Bilbo beating the tar out of a pile of fire wood with a chopping axe. The small Hobbit didn't seemed to have noticed them as he kept hacking away at the pile.

" _Ég sver að ég mun drepa þessi Töframaður_ _…_ _Ég drep dreki konungur líka_ _!_ _Þorinn er lifandi_ _…_ _!_ _Ég sver að Töframaður verður næsta máltíð mína_!" Bilbo snarled, maliciously chopping at the wood as if it were the hide of a dragon.

Gandalf cleared his throat loudly.

Bilbo dropped the axe immediately, his hand reaching up to his chest. Why did the burning increase? Why was it hurting so much? It never hurt that much. He looked up at the Dwarves who were looking at Bilbo with mixed looks of curiosity and caution.

"Curse Wizards and their confoundery." Bilbo murmured, before, the pain in his chest over took him and he blacked out.

Thorin was the first to react, He dropped his sword and lunged out, catching the unconscious Hobbit. He cradled his head making sure he did not make the damage any worse. They then took the Hobbit to bed where Gandalf stayed to keep vigil. Gloin was smart enough to light a fire in the living area, where they all gathered.

Thorin walked to the fire place and rested his arm on the mantle. His eyes were drawn to a small oak box that rested innocently on the slab of wood. Carve into the wood were two creatures: a dragon and a Dwarf.

He almost recoiled at the sight. It was impossible. It was completely and undeniably impossible. An entire coincidence. Then Thorin thought of the Wizard that waited in the room next door.

_I have a feeling that none of this was ever a coincidence._ He thought ruefully, opening his mouth; surprised that the words that tumbled out were the lament of his homeland instead of what he had meant to say; which he couldn't even remember at the moment.

So many had died that fateful day. So many…including a dragon who should not have… a dragon who had tried to do his duty as a brother.

_"Far over the misty mountains cold,_   
_To dungeons deep and caverns old,_   
_We must away, ere break of day,_   
_To find our long forgotten gold._

_The pines were roaring on the height,_  
The winds were moaning in the night,   
_The fire was red, it flaming spread,_   
_The trees like torches blazed with light."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, they've been reunited...sorta...not really...


	5. A Willing Heart

"Bryngeir! Bryngeir!"

The emerald dragon, whose neck was curling royally in a perfect S-shape, swiveled his head around to see the blue and black clad Dwarf racing up the mountain slope. His lips parted back in a tired grin.

"Well it's about time that you arrived. I was afraid you skipped."

Thorin ran as quickly as he could to the Great Dragon. "You have no idea how long it takes for those Dwarves to get hammered."

Bryngeir tilted his head with amusment. "Watch yourself, you make it sound as if you're not one of 'those Dwarves'."

"I try not to get drunk." He laughed.

"Mmhm." The dragon snorted. "So, then, you're telling me you didn't bring the spirits?"

"Hold on, I didn't say that." Thorin defended in a playful manner.

"Oh, okay then. No hammering?"

"No."

Bryngeir gave a false sigh. "Well, then. All that liquor just for me."

"Oh no, you will not be drinking before flying."

"I have a few hours."

"Nope, not happening."

"Oh come on!"

"Aren't you supposed to be the older one?"

"Exactly why I know my limitations as a responsible, mature dragon for drinking liquor."

Thorin seated himself next to the dragon. "Pfft, you have no limitations. You could just keep drinking kegs if you really wanted to."

"Yes, well…" Bryngeir yawned. "I would stop, if I knew I had drunk enough."

"Tired?" The Dwarf asked, stretching out his arms.

"Being a king is hard." The Great Dragon admitted. "I have to look over all of our borders which stretch from the Ice Bay of Forochel to Carn Dûm and then all the way to the western border of Mordor."

"So you fly a lot, then."

"Mhm. It takes me about a week to do that patrol." He continued. "Most of the other Sky Racers take that patrol for me, though. I only have to observe once a month. After that, I have to keep tabs on the Treasure Seekers, Hunters, and Finders—the lot of them like sneaking out of our borders to go find gold and jewels for their hoards. I also make sure that the normal Hunters don't wander into lone dragon territories. Thorin, you have no idea how painful it is to be connected to the mind of every single Great Dragon within our borders."

Thorin hummed. "Well, perhaps…wait, can you hear them now?"

The emerald and gold dragon shifted his position a bit. "Yes."

"I'm amazed, in all honesty." The Dwarf prince marveled. "You can find all of your subjects just by thinking alone."

"Flattered as I am, it doesn't solve my problem." Bryngeir complained, scratching the gold-runed metal chains that stretched and dangled from his two largest horns.

"Perhaps this will?" Thorin suggested, pulling out a flagon.

The dragon's hazel-brown eyes widened. "Yes!"

"It thought it might." Thorin jeered, standing up and turning to the dragon.

Bryngeir opened his mouth slightly, sticking out his tongue. Thorin pulled off the cork stopper to the flagon and pour out most of the contents onto the dragon's bumpy red and blue tongue. It flicked back into the creature's mouth, curling so the contents wouldn't spill. For the dragon, it was hardly a swallows worth, but the taste was what he relished.

"Mmm, is this the special Durin's Day brew you were telling me about?" He asked with a swallow.

Thorin nodded, drinking the rest of the beer.

"Well, that was quite a lovely taste." The dragon nodded. "Thank you."

"No problem." Thorin smiled. "Next year, you will have to bring me that dragon's brew you were talking about."

Bryngeir cackled. "I'm still not convinced you can hold your liquor enough to drink _that_ particular brew. It's not called Weeper's Beer for just amusement."

"I think I'd be fine."

"You would, you over-confident prince."

"Mean dragon king. You're always calling me names."

"Aw, don't be a hatchling."

"You're being mean."

"Thin-skinned."

"Uh…meanie?"

The two looked at each other before Bryngeir burst into laughter.

"Really, meanie? That was all you could come up with?"

"Shut up, Bryngeir!"

The dragon shook his head before looking out at the stars. His smile dimmed a bit. It would be time for him to head back soon. He didn't promise ever coming back because he always stood at threat with the Fire Drakes of the North. His Spies were always reporting of stray Drakes flying very close or into Smaug's territory. He knew that the prior king was in a foul mood about his win of kingship, and that he was planning something against the Great Dragons.

_It's just a matter of time._ Bryngeir thought ruefully, looking at the raven haired Dwarf who was contentedly leaning against his back.

"Hey, Thorin?" He spoke up.

The Dwarf rumbled an acknowledgement that he heard.

"You turned twenty-four full seasons, correct?"

"Mm, yes, last month."

The dragon nodded.

"Why?

"When hatchlings turn twenty-five," Bryngeir began, "their family unites declare them dragonets. This is their first step to maturity. At twenty-five, they are allowed to test their wings, because their bodies are now strong enough to with stand a fall should they drop from the air, and their wings are strong enough to carry our heavy bodies through the air."

Thorin listened intently.

"Being that you would be turning twenty-five full seasons next year, I want to give you a small taste of the birthday present I'll be giving you."

"There's no reason to give me a birthday—"

The Great Dragon rolled his eyes. "Just hop on, you stubborn Dwarf."

The prince's eyes widened considerably. "You…you mean—"

"Yes, I mean ride a dragon. Now get on, we don't have all night." Bryngeir snorted.

Thorin faced his friend again. "Where?"

The dragon hummed. "My head is fine. Between the largest horn and the one in front of it."

Bryngeir tried not to flinch as Thorin grabbed his smallest horn and used it to heave himself up onto the dragon's snout. The bulky hand ran over the chipped gold plates that lined themselves from the tip of the reptile's nose all the way to the tip of his tail. Despite what he may say, Bryngeir was built for war—with heavy metal-like plate scales ruining both along his top and his underbelly.

It was a ticklish sensation, to feel the soles of Thorin's boots walk along the plate scales. Bryngeir had to stop himself from laughing. He was probably the first of his kind to allow a Dwarf to ride on top a dragon. He had heard of his mysterious kin in the east that actually had an order of what they called _Reiðmenn Drekar_ or Dragon Riders—but no one was actually sure if they existed.

"Should I sit or stand?" Thorin asked, his hands clutching the horn Bryngeir had suggested.

"Sit. Sit cross-legged, wrap your legs around the horn you're holding onto. I don't want you falling."

"Is that a possibility?"

"I wouldn't let you hit the ground if that's what you're asking."

"Wonderful."

Bryngeir rumbled. "Hold tight."

With that warning, he stood up. Thorin's intake of air was so brusque and so sharp, Bryngeir wondered if the Dwarf actually breathed in anything.

"I had known you were large, but…you're huge. The ground is so far below!" Thorin gaped, realizing that at this height, he was almost as high as the treetops.

"Nonsense, I'm quite averaged sized for a Great Dragon. There are quite a few, including Draupneir, who are larger than me." Bryngeir laughed, stretching out his wings.

"Draupneir has surpassed you in height?"

"Height, size, weight, you name it. That boy has become the largest dragonet I've ever seen. Most dragons have their growth spurt in their adulthood—but oh no, not my cousin."

"Congratulations then."

"Raising dragonets is hard too."

"No one said life was easy."

"True. Now, don't look down—alright?"

"Wait, what?" Thorin managed to shout out before he lost all sense of his weight.

The air was rushing on top of him, and his hair, coat, and armor all flustered about like sails to a ship in the great gust of wind. His grip tightened on the horn he was so precariously wrapped around. The dragon laughed.

"Open your eyes Dwarf, you can see so much from up here. Just don't look down—look out."

The wind was flustering all around him, event though all the dragon king was doing was hovering. It was then that the prince realized that the wind was coming from the dragon's own wings.

_They're like a hurricane's wind._ He thought with wonder. _They have so much power—they are a storm unto themselves._

Shakily, Thorin forced his blue eyes open. The sight took away his breath. In the just blushing dawn, Erebor rose in all its splendor; a pale slate grey against a pink-black sky. The mountain towered ever so proudly while Esgaroth slept peacefully beneath it. The smile that gifted his face was one that Bryngeir had wished to see.

But the dragon wouldn't tell. He wouldn't tell that he may not be able to come back in time to give the Dwarf the rest of his birthday present.

He may not be able to come back at all.

**~0oo0~**

Bilbo awoke with a fluttering breath. His hand instantly going to his chest where the pain dully throbbed. Ever since yesterday evening, the wound on his chest had started hurting. But why? He had done nothing out of the ordinary. He had saved Peregrin, but that was the extent. He'd not tried to transform or…

The Dwarves.

There had been Dwarves in his home—but not just any Dwarves, but the Dwarves of Erebor. Which included Thorin; his Thorin. The one who he had thought fell under the claws of Smaug.

_But he survived._ That little voice in the back of the head told him. _You both survived._

Jumping out of bed, Bilbo rushed out of his room. A smile graced his face and he was prepared this time to meet his guests. Of course, that was if there were guests to meet.

All through the smial, not a creature stirred not even a mouse. Bilbo stood confused in his blouse and trousers, thoroughly confused. There was no sign that the Dwarves had been in his home. No nasty scrape marks along the wall from their weapons, nor dirty mud tracks running along the carpet. Scared—scared that everything had been a dream—he began to search his home. His table was in order and so was his kitchen. The pantry was…empty.

That was a relief.

Wait.

"They left me!" Bilbo shouted, stomping his foot.

Not even a trace of Gandalf remained. Normally, the Wizard would at least stay the night to rest up from whatever journey he'd come from. But no, not this time. They'd all just gotten up and left while the dragon had been sleeping. What was it with others taking advantage of sleeping dragons? It was entirely unfair.

"The nerve! _Heimskur Töframaður og Dvergarnir_."

It took him a bit of wandering, but eventually he did find more evidence of last night's occupants. And what he found left him a bit happier. To the left, on the bench in front of the common area, lay the contract. It innocently dangled from the edge, failing miserably to not draw attention to itself. The Hobbit hurried over to it, snatching it up like a hawk. The signatures of both Balin and Thorin decorated the paper. One spot was missing a signature, though.

The burglar's spot.

Bilbo smiled, a small smirk on his face. Well that decided it, then.

He dashed back to his room and dropped to the floor. His hand reached under his bed until he found it. Pulling it out from under the furniture, Bilbo revealed a leather traveling pack. It had been his, when he and Belladonna had gone on adventures together. It'd been a long time when he'd done so, but it would still serve its purpose. Not really noticing what he threw into the bag, he grabbed his sleeping roll and tied it to the sack before sprinting out with traveling pack, and coat in hand.

Bilbo brought himself to the living room and grabbed the oaken box that rested on the mantle. He opened it and pulled out the strand of braid, shoving it in his pocket. After that he rushed into the kitchen until he found his emergency box of biscuits. He tossed those into his pack. He ran through the hall, grabbing the contract on his way out and burst through the door, not even bothering to lock it.

_The Gaffer's got the spare keys to the smial anyways. He'll lock up for me._

He ran down the trails of the Shire, dodging people and jumping over obstacles. It was the closest to flying that he'd been to in years. The largest smile he'd worn in a long time painted his face as he raced through the Shire.

"Dear Mr. Bilbo, where on earth are you going?" Someone shouted out.

He didn't stop. "I'm going on an adventure!"

His heart pounded as he left Hobbiton's proximity. He ran and ran and ran. This was it. He was finally leaving his home after more than seven hundred years. Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings now Bilbo, was going to reclaim Erebor. Maybe, since hadn't been able to save it—he'd be able to gain it back.

_I owe Thorin that much._

Finding the Dwarves was easy. Gandalf's scent carried along the wind, as did the rest of the other thirteen. They were traveling upwind. Bilbo laughed. The blasted Wizard was purposefully leading them upwind so that way he could find them. That Wizard.

_Oh how I could kill him._ He thought in the most loving, friendliest way he could.

It wasn't long before he saw the trail of ponies streaming slowly across the land. His smile wide and broad. He'd done it. Looking up, he'd realized that he'd reached his record running time. Fifteen minutes to find the Dwarves and reach them. Not bad for a Hobbit.

"Wait!" He called out. "Wait!"

Thorin called for a halt.

Gandalf looked back with a pleasantly smug grin.

_I'll deal with you later_ _Töframaður_ _._ He sauntered up to Balin. "I signed it, I did."

The old wizened Dwarf took out a set of spectacles and winked at him before looking to the contract. Bilbo waited with baited breath. Noticing Thorin's glower towards him. He glanced slightly to the Dwarf king, tilting his head in confusion. What'd he done?

Balin chuckled and the Hobbit looked up with a hopeful expression.

"Welcome to the company of Thorin Oakenshield, Master Baggins."

Bilbo sighed in relief. He'd done it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heimskur Töframaður og Dvergarnir: Stupid Wizard and Dwarves.


	6. Of Mad Kings and of Sad Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo remembers and Thorin reminisces.

The sound of howling rose over the hills and rocks in which they rested on. Bilbo shook from his light doze; screeching noises assailing his ears with no mercy. His grip tightened on his bed roll as he slowly sat up, a displeased look crossing his face.

 _They're quite close._ He thought, looking out into the cold dark night. _If only I had my night vision. It would be quite a handy tool right now._

"That'd be Orcs." A voice piped up from behind him.

Bilbo swiveled his head to see Kili and Fili looking out in the same direction as he was.

"Orcs?" He echoed, wondering if they thought he was really that ignorant.

"Oh yes, there'd be tons of them out there." Fili affirmed, nodding his head.

The Hobbit almost smirked, they did think he was that dim. "Orcs? Out there, really?" He peeped facetiously.

"They strike in the wee hours of the night," Kili murmured. "They leave very little trace of their attack…just lots of blood."

 _Idiots. I wonder if these two have actually seen any real Orc in their life._ He opened his mouth to comment, but a deep furious voice interrupted him.

"You think a night raid by Orcs is naught but a joke?"

The three of them looked up to Thorin's silent rage. The two young Dwarves had the humility to look ashamed in their actions. They bowed their heads slightly as the allowed their uncle to glower down at them. Bilbo waited for Thorin's eyes to soften, for his tight jaw to slacken a bit.

He was met with much disappointment.

Thorin scowled and snarled at his nephews. "You know _nothing_ of the world."

The Halfling watched slightly annoyed as the oldest Dwarf stalked away. His shoulders pressed forward and his hair billowing behind him dramatically. Bilbo actually rolled his eyes.

" _Þ_ _ú hálfviti Dvergur_ , stop being so melodramatic." He shouted out at the raven head.

Thorin snapped around his bright blue eyes burning angrily.

Gandalf sat up, his eyes wide as he watched Bilbo stand up and march right up to the larger Dwarf.

"Fili and Kili are but children compared to your age and I bet they've never seen a real Orc in their life. The only thing they've anything to work off of is old warrior's tales and their Dwarrowdam's horror stories. Be gentler to them. Like you said—they don't know."

"And what, Master Baggins," Thorin growled, "would _you_ know about Orcs?"

That took the Hobbit aback.

In his mind, he could hear the screams of all the Hobbits in the Shire. Children dashed through the snow trying to find their way into any smial that would open their doors with welcoming safety. Belladonna and Bungo flashed before his eyes, speeding through the dark, jumping from place to place to draw away the Wargs and Orcs. He could hear his own voice screaming their names as his stomach burned with fire. The juicy liquid heat boiled through his esophagus, escaping his throat and out of his maw. The flames dancing about, stealing prey wherever they could. But it had been too late.

As his eyes cleared from the daze, and the swell of tears began to form in the corners of his eyes, Thorin stomped off away from the others. The exile Dwarven king furious with the words of a Hobbit. Such a peace loving creature could never know the horrors of what he'd seen. And still Bilbo had dared to rebuff him? Insolent ingrate.

Bilbo balled his fists as he watched the raven head go. _This is not the Thorin I know._

"You'll have to forgive him, lad."

The Halfling looked down to see Balin resting against the stump of a tree.

"Thorin has more reason than most to hate Orcs."

"Oh?" Bilbo tried very hard not to scoff.

"Ah lad." Balin nodded solemnly. "It began several years after we had been driven out of Erebor. To find a home for our people, we tried to reclaim our mountain of Moria."

"The Battle of Anzanulbizar."

"Indeed."

Bilbo listened to the tale of the battle. He'd read about it in what books Gandalf had scavenged for him. The battle had always been watered down though. Never in full depth with the tragedy of the war. He'd knew many Dwarves had died that doomed day, but never to the numbers of Balin's recollection. Bilbo's sorrow for his own kin melded with Balin as the old Dwarf continued his story. How many dragons had died the days that they tried to escape Smaug? A bitter king could only be despaired knowing that he was the last of his kind.

But a furious king could only be further enraged at watching his grandfather be killed before his very eyes. His father disappearing in the haze of bloody battle. The number of fallen comrades being accounted for as the survivors walk across a sea of bodies.

In the darkness of Bilbo's mind, the fires roared to life and the Orc's blades met with Hobbit necks.

So maybe the two kings had more in common than Thorin knew.

Bilbo looked up as said-Dwarf turned around from his brooding position on the outcropping of the ledge. The other Dwarves—his kin, his battle-mates, his people—stood up, watching him with a sense of awe. The Hobbit looked at him with sympathy before turning back to Balin.

"And what of the pale Orc?"

Balin opened his mouth, but was interrupted.

"He died of his wounds long ago." Thorin rumbled. "It would be best if that scum were never mentioned."

Balin looked from Bilbo to Gandalf. Bilbo quirked his brow and looked to the Wizard. The grey clothed Man seemed to deflate a bit as he looked into the darkness where the sounding cry of Orcs challenged the would-be silence of the night.

"Get some sleep, Master Burglar, tomorrow is another day of travel." Thorin grumbled, settling down against his prior position.

The Hobbit nodded.

One by one the Dwarves drooped off to sleep. Such a story no doubt would give them dark dreams, but they did not mind. They knew that in the company of their fearless leader, no Orcs would be a threat.

Bilbo watched them all begin to rest. His doe-like eyes watching them with wariness. These people were so forsaken. He wanted nothing more to help them. He looked to Thorin whose eyes watched the landscape intently.

 _I want to help him too._ Bilbo sighed in thought. _A hundred plus years can do things to a person. Thorin is very different from the Dwarf I had once known. He so dark and mournful. I see very little hope of any light bringing him from the hollow place within his mind. It is like a dragon-void._

He shivered at the thought of a dragon-void.

Most dragons were fortunate enough to have the ability to move on after the death of a family member of their unit. But sometimes, an entire unit minus would be eradicated. Such a sorrow and pain would overflow the dragon's heart and soul and cause them to despair. Bit by bit they would begin to internally decay while still alive. Then the outside such as skin, scales, claws and horns would rot away. These event would continue to happen until the dragon was nothing left but a living skeleton. The dragon-voids would roam the land, looking for some relief from the agony of the loss. The only kind way to release them from their restlessness was through destruction. That was the worst part of being Dragon King was the destruction of the dragon-voids.

 _Whatever you do,_ Bilbo's mind murmured as he slowly began to drift to sleep. _Don't become a dragon-void, Thorin. I cannot face such creatures again._

**~0oo0~**

The wind keened through the trees and past the burrows. Bilbo looked up with concern as he paused from knocking on the door. He felt a disturbance that he couldn't quite place. His thickly gloved hand tightened. Shaking his head, he turned back to his task and set a few solid knocks on the wooden door before him. He waited a few seconds, hopping from foot to foot in the frigid cold.

 _Come on, come on, open the cursed door._ He growled, tightening his warm armed grip on his precious bundle.

As if responding to his thoughts, the door slowly creaked open and a young face looked up at him. Bright blue eyes looked at him in relief, and the door opened wider. A young Hobbit lady held out her arms welcomingly. Bilbo plopped the bushel of lumber into her arms before turning around without little other word.

"Wait!" the Hobbit-woman cried out.

He turned around with his brow cocked. "What is it?"

"Yavanna bless you, Bilbo. You're doing a great risk for the rest of us to be safe."

"You lot are too cowardly to do otherwise." He said with a jesting grin but a bitterness in his heart.

The woman instantly quieted and he sprinted off. His large bare feet trudged through the snow as he bounded. He damned whoever thought it'd be some joke to force the Shirefolk into a three month winter, and continued his struggling journey through the powder. His ears caught the sound of other voices and he gave a shout. Belladonna and Bungo Baggins came up from the other side, making a quick pace through the snow—they had as much trouble as Bilbo was having.

"I do believe that's the last of it." Belladonna said when they finally met up with one another.

"Good." Bilbo nodded stiffly. "Think we can head indoors now?"

"D-d-d-don't be s-s-s-such a f-f-f-fauntling!" Bungo chattered, his hands moving up and down his forearms.

"Cold much?" Bilbo teased.

Belladonna rolled her eyes. "Both of you stop being such pathetic faunts. Come on, let's go get a cuppa."

Bilbo hummed and followed the she-Hobbit. He watched with a slight bit of envy as Bungo clutched the hand of his wife. The Hobbit couldn't help but wonder if circumstances were different, if he would have a mate of his own by now. It didn't seem very likely, but he enjoyed to entertain the idea.

The trek through the annoying snow was an arduous one. By the time the three arrived to the doorstep of Bag End, Bilbo's calves burned and ached. Bungo and Belladonna stomped their feet off at the mat before continuing on into the smial. Bilbo dragged his feet—large and hair—across the itchy welcoming mat before walking in to the warm home.

A fire crackled to life, warmly greeting them.

Bilbo immediately shucked his wet clothes and left them by the door. He walked across the hall into the common room where the fire sang to him. With a wistful look he stood as close to the popping flames before lying down in front of them, curling up.

"Bilbo!" A voice called from the kitchen.

"Yes?" He answered, slowly closing his eyes.

"Did you leave your wet stuff at the doorstep again?"

His left eye creaked open sleepily. "Um…"

Belladonna walked into the room her hands on her hips, a spatula held in one of them. "Erhm, mister, go pick up your stuff and put it by the wash basket."

"But I just lied down." He whined.

She smacked his bottom with the spatula. "Get to it."

"Do you have any idea of who I am? How dare you smack my bottom!" He shouted indignantly, shooting up.

She smirked. "Got you up, didn't it?"

The Hobbit grumbled but went to the hall to get the wet things. Afterwards, he was rewarded with a piping cup of hot tea and his spot by the fire place. Bungo had retired to his chair where he was smoking his pipe and Belladonna was curled up on the sofa, reading a book that Bungo had bought her for her birthday.

"Hey, Bilbo," she murmured.

The Hobbit didn't bother to open his eyes this time. "Yes, Belladonna?"

"Why…why aren't you allowed to transform?"

Bungo looked from his wife to the dragon-made-Hobbit on the floor nervously.

It was quite and the two natural Hobbits didn't think that he would answer. This had always been a tender question. Gandalf had warned the two to tread with tender hooks when it came to Bilbo's—Bryngeir's—past. It was a delicate, fragile topic.

"It's not safe." Bilbo mumbled.

"I live for danger." Belladonna argued, not pleased with his answer.

Bilbo was quite for a very long time after that.

Bungo felt as though his wife ahd crossed the line, but Belladonna felt no inclination whatsoever. She was about to chuck her book at the Hobbit on the floor before he spoke very softly.

"There is another dragon…one who is very, very powerful." He whispered. "The moment I transform, he will smell me out like a hound. This dragon would not hesitate to kill every Hobbit in the Shire."

The other two sucked in their breath. They'd knew that Bilbo had been involved in a great dragon war, but neither of them expected him to be hiding. They knew that he was severely injured, but not the cause of it. Belladonna looked to her husband and he nodded her—a signal for her to stop her questioning.

They'd already asked the other too much.

Bilbo felt the fire's warmth upon his face and that was all he needed to forget the pain of everything else. The Hobbit-dragon fell asleep.

A howl interrupted his slumber. It was loud and very, very hollow. Not like a normal wolf's howling but another creature's. He knew this one very well. It was a Warg.

He shot up, just like that. He spun around to see that the smial was empty. Bilbo jumped up and ran through the halls, his heart pounding.

"Belladonna! Bungo!" He screamed.

He ran back into the common room and then into the kitchen. A note had been delicately placed by the kettle.

_Dear Bilbo,_

_We went to go get more fire wood for the others. Wait here until we get back._

_B &B_

He panicked. Not even bothering to pull on warmer clothes, he ran to the door, threw it open and rushed outside in his trousers and blouse.

All around him, he could hear screaming. There were Hobbit being pulled out of their smial by, large ugly creatures that he knew immediately to be Orcs. Warg bounded rampantly through Hobbiton. Their large paws leaving devastating tracks while some of them held Hobbits between their jaws. There was nothing but chaos.

Bilbo panicked, he rushed forward, dodging the predators. He kept running, the faint smell of his two Hobbits in the wind. He followed his senses, struggling through the powder. When he got to where the scents, led him to, he was repulsed. There laying in front of a circle of younglings were two bodies. A woman's with a sword resting in her limp hand, and a man's with a large piece of wood in his. The children were backed against the tree as a few mounted Wargs surged in slowly, while a few left to tear at the dead bodies.

Tears formed in the dragon's eyes. He roared. He roared and roared and roared.

The Hobbit children seemed more afraid of him now, than the Orcs and Wargs. Said Orcs and Wargs looked confused at the strange Hobbit in no winter wear, with hazel eyes burning with tears. Bilbo snarled at them.

"You killed them!" He howled.

The Wargs and Orcs came forward.

Heat built up in his belly, it was putrid and burning—it felt as though his insides were cooking. But it didn't matter. The fire crawled up his throat and he didn't not regret the blood building along the skin that the liquid made.

A conflagration of bright orange burst from his jaws and onto the Wargs and Orcs before him.

Screams sang through the night as dragonfire razed through Hobbiton.

**~0oo0~**

Bilbo shot up, a scream tearing through his mouth. Well, a scream would've had there not been a hand, promptly clamping his mouth shut. He grabbed the arm with panic, ready to burn anyone who dare attack him.

"Master Baggins."

And then he remembered. He remembered where he was and the company that he kept. It was only Thorin.

Slowly, he pulled the Dwarf's hand off. "Thank you. Sorry, was I loud?"

"You were crying in your sleep." The raven-haired Dwarf hissed. "You almost woke up the entire camp with your scream had I not stopped you."

"Then thank you." Bilbo whispered quietly, in no mood to deal with Thorin's snark. _He's so different._

He got up from where he was sleeping, stretching his limbs. Ignoring Thorin, he walked away and to the outcropping. He sat down, his feet dangling over the edge. He breathed in the cold night. Bilbo wanted to forget. He wanted to forget everything.

"Is there something wrong, Master Baggins?" Thorin asked, sitting down next to the Hobbit.

Bilbo almost growled. "No." He answered brusquely.

Thorin nodded, looking out across the land, his pipe in his mouth. This all felt strangely familiar. It felt very akin to the time when he and Bryngeir would meet and talk. For whatever reason, Bilbo had the dragon's gentle aura.

"Do wish to speak of it?" The Dwarf asked. "I find it very puzzling on thinking of what things could make a Hobbit cry. Perhaps someone stole your favorite arm chair?"

The Hobbit laughed bitterly. "Oh no, that's not it trust me. I'm sure quite a few Hobbits though, have spilled a few tears over an arm chair."

Thorin huffed a bit of amusement. "I'm sure. A peaceloving people like you would only cry about such things."

That silenced the Hobbit.

Thorin waited for some sort of snide remark or come back. It never came. Instead, Bilbo looked out to the night sky. His eyes hazy and wistful. The Dwarf king felt bad, as if he'd spoken out of place. Perhaps he had.

"The Hobbits have not always lived in peace." Bilbo murmured. "They have reason to hate Orcs as well."

"I doubt it is not as bad as Anzanulbizar." Thorin growled, feeling agitated that the Halfling would dare compare his strife to his own.

"It was their own Anzanulbizar in a sense." The Hobbit continued. "It is called the Fell Winter."

"The Fell Winter?" The Dwarf echoed. _I remember of merchants who had bypassed Hobbiton to Ered Lûin speaking of this._

"Yes. It was a time when the Brandywine River—our safety border—froze over. It was free kill from there. Orcs and Wargs came into our town unwarranted and laid waste to everything. The Hobbits were nearly exterminated for that factor."

Thorin blinked. Why hadn't his people heard of such calamity? Perhaps they would've been able to help.

"And where were you in all of this? Were alive during this incident?"

"Quite. I was the one setting fire to everything that I could. I knew that the Orcs and Wargs would burn—so I made sure they would suffer."

"That is quite battle-prone for a Hobbit." Thorin bemused.

Bilbo gave him a rueful grin. "I'm no ordinary Hobbit."

The Dwarf rolled his blue eyes. For once in a very long time, he felt as though he and Bryngeir were sneaking out again. Enjoying their evening and speaking of the troubles of their people. But when he looked again, there was no dragon; just a Hobbit. His heart sunk and he shook his head. Instead of brooding again though, he merely shook his head with a tired chuckle.

"Of that I have no doubt, Bilbo Baggins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Þú hálfviti Dvergur: You idiot Dwarf


	7. Trolls of the Head and Troll-Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, well, Bilbo's discovered a sense of sass and begins to realize that maybe ALL dragons are greedy...

_Bryngeir looked at the female dragon who stood before him. She was a general among the Treasure Hunters—that much was obvious. Unlike his simple golden chains that decorated his horns, she beheld jeweled earrings tearing at her ears while embedded diamond tattoos marred her long purple body. In a strange and flashy way only known to the Treasure Hunters and Treasure Seekers was she gorgeous. An admirable mate of high status for any male to be pleased to take. The emerald dragon forced himself to stop staring._

_"I do beg your pardon, Ósk." He murmured. "I was not paying attention. A bit tired is all, please run your report over again."_

_"The work of the king hard, majesty?" She drawled curiously, her tongue darting out for a second._

_The king dragon nodded, his ears flapping against the side of his head. "I must admit, it is troublesome. The burden of a king. I would even dare to say I now know why Smaug went insane."_

_Her gold eyes widened a bit. "That difficult?"_

_"And large burden with the load, I'm afraid." He answered, settling his head down on his fore arms, hazel eyes blinking tiredly._

_The amethyst dragon lay down in front of him, her tail coiling lazily. "As your friend, Bryngeir, would you not tell me if I could help in any way?"_

_A mirthless laugh escaped his throat. "It is not your place, Óski."_

_Her nostrils flared with embarrassment. "Don't call me that, we are no longer hatchlings."_

_"As your friend, I deem whatever nickname appropriate."_

_"You idiot."_

_"That wasn't nice Óski."_

_"Oh grow up."_

_Bryngeir chuckled a bit. A small set of lightness curling up within his heart. It felt good to confide in her. He had to admit, it had been a while since he'd seen Ósk. With their callings into different sects, staying in contact had become difficult and before they knew it—they'd been estranged. But she'd been the one to help him, that faithful day that Thorin set him free. She'd helped him reach the mountains of their home and helped nurse him to health. She'd been there when Smaug had challenged him to a duel, and it was Ósk who stayed by his side throughout his fight with the Fire Drake of the North._

_"You know you can always come to me." Ósk whispered, concern shimmering in her large eyes._

_"I know."_

_As his head shook back and forth, the little black braid delicately decorating one of the gold chains caught the female's eye._

_"Is that from your brother, the Dwarf?"_

_Bryngeir nodded. "Indeed. He offered it up to me in recompense for what had happened."_

_"I heard that any hair shorn is a disgrace to their kind." Ósk murmured, shooting a questioning glance._

_"That's why the buffoon did so." The Great Dragon king snorted. "He offered the greatest form of apology he could think of. The braid was easy enough to sever without it being noticeable, but meaningful enough for it to hurt him when he cut it."_

_"He sounds like a good man."_

_"He's a prince."_

_"You hold him in high regard."_

_"No…Óski, really. He's a prince. His father is Thrain."_

_Ósk blinked for a moment, trying to find the jest in his words. But found none. "You…you're serious. Your_ væng broðir _is the next in line for the throne under Erebor?"_

_"A bit humorous, no?"_

_"Not just humorous, but also beneficial!" She smiled broadly, her sharp fangs gleaming like ivory. "Don't you understand, Bryngeir? You are a king, he is a prince! The pettiness between at least one of the two-legged races can end. You and him can set up negotiations and—"_

_"It can't be like that." He growled a bit too harshly. "They've already tried to kill me, you've seen the result of that."_

_He flaunted his cracked chest plates and his broken horn just to get his point across._

_"The minute I step foot near the Lonely Mountain again, Thror will have me ended."_

_She sighed. "So what, then?"_

_"Thorin's and my friendship remains a secret. That's what."_

_She offered him a sympathetic smile, and he couldn't help but lower his ears in affection. Such a kind hearted, beautiful dragon. A diamond in the rough, even though she herself had a few sharp edges. But she was perfect._

_And he planned to make her his._

_Ósk._

_Ósk…_

_Óski…_

"Ósk!" Bilbo screamed, his eyelids flashing open. Her image disappearing in a carnage of crimson as Smaug seized his revenge upon the Great Dragons.

Thorin was there at a moment, his face furious. "Master Burglar, unless you wish to give our position away to Mahal-knows-what out there, I suggest you keep your gibberish to yourself."

The image of Ósk faded away with the remaining twilight. The day had begun to blush prettily, a good start given their past rainy endeavors. Thorin shot one last glare at the Hobbit before stalking away.

Bilbo sighed. "I never get a break do I?"

"Don't worry, Master Boggins!" Kili chirped from his side.

Fili sauntered up next to him, as well. "Yes! Kee used to get nightmares all the time, as well."

"Oh, come off it Fee!" Kili bit back. "I haven't had nightmares since I was fifty! What about you, Master Boggins? How old are you?"

_I don't know._ He thought bitterly, before responding with the age Gandalf had given him. "Fifty three."

"You're right still young." Fili marveled. "I wonder why uncle allowed you to come. You're just a baby still!"

"Don't go saying that." Bilbo snided, "I could outsmart you boys in your studies any day."

"That has nothing to do with age, mister."

"I know it doesn't. But I does give me more credibility." The Hobbit grinned.

Kili spluttered.

Fili laughed. "Ooh, I like him! He's down right witty. You've lost your touch, Kee."

"Don't go sayin' that!" the brunette Dwarf whined. "I haven't lost my touch…"

Bilbo smirked at them before shooing them away with his hands. "Hey, let me finish packing up, you rapscallions. Unless you want Thorin to be cranky at you again."

"You cannot worm your way out of this one, Boggins." Kili smiled while Fili dragged him away. "We shall return!"

_That I don't doubt._ He sniggered, packing up his things and rolling them into his pack.

Thorin shouted out the orders for them to mount, and they all reached their appointed ponies. Tacking them took a few minutes, but in no time at all the thirteen Dwarves, one Hobbit, and a Wizard were well on their way again. The sky glimmered with little chances of rain—a welcomed change—and told them that their start was closer to elevensies than Bilbo supposed Thorin would've wanted it to have been.

The old dragon, for the majority of the day, enjoyed a pleasant conversation with Balin and Dori about teas. He was very surprised to discover some of the plants he'd known to be poisonous could be brewed just right to form medicinal remedies. He'd knew it could be done in such a way to build up immunity to snake venoms, but not plants.

"Indeed." Dori nodded. "Jus' shake 'em up, and viola! A good, piping, fresh, hot brew."

Balin nodded. "Served with some dry biscuits and even scones, 'tis a lovely dish."

"I never known that…well…that particular flower could help and not kill." Bilbo mentally added the flower to the growing list the two Dwarves provided him with.

"Most plants are good for you." Dori nodded. "Even if they're poisonous."

"Or some plants like hemlock, those do nothing but ill." Balin admitted.

The other graying Dwarf hummed in agreement.

The Hobbit stuck his tongue out briefly. "Hemlock. Nasty buisness. I'd swallowed some once. Thank Yavanna it wasn't enough to kill me, but it was quite the ugly affair."

"I'm sure!"

"It wasn't bad as we thought it would be. I for sure thought I would've been a goner. But my mother and father stood by me adamantly while I recovered. It took me a little less than half a year to recover, but…"

"It was quite the amazing thing." Dori murmured. "That you recovered so quickly."

"You're lucky to be alive, Bilbo." Balin nodded. "Most would die after the exposure."

"Hobbits are pretty stout." Bilbo shrugged. _Although hemlock can do little wrong to a dragon._

"And what other of your adventures?" Balin continued. "I heard from the boys that you had quite the few when you were a wee lad."

"Well, it's been a while I admit." Bilbo laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head. "I guess you could say I thought I'd learn from my previous mistakes."

"Mistakes?" Dori echoed.

"We all make them." The Hobbit side, looking over the veranda tiredly—the images of his kingdom burning, flashed before his mind. "I just…I seem to make the worst of them."

"Now, now." Balin reprimanded with a light tone. "You sound like you've been burdened with the world, Master Baggins. Don't go all gloomy on us like our majestic king."

_I heard that…_ Thorin growled from the front of the line.

Balin pretended to ignore the brooding vibes from the younger Dwarf. "Anyways, surely there must be some story you have."

Bilbo tucked his chin close to his chest. "Well…I have a story not about me but a story about a …"

"Oh?" Dori queried. "What race would that be?"

"One that you wouldn't be interested in." Bilbo muttered, with a dismal wave of his hand.

Balin huffed. "Well, you've got our interests now, laddie. Might as well tell us."

"Well…" Bilbo sighed, looking off towards Thorin at the front. _I just…I just want him to recognize me in the form…even if…_

His eyes widened. Is that what he wanted? Sure he'd felt a companionship to the the leader Dwarf that Thorin would never return, but had he sought recognition. Did he want Thorin to recognize him in the pathetic form of an old Hobbit? Bilbo's fingers tightened around the braid that rested inside his pocket. Things had always been so complicated. He couldn't help but wonder if life would've been simpler for him if he'd never said the young prince from the Orcs in the woods.

"Long ago," the Hobbit began quietly, just so that the two older Dwarfs could hear, "there was a young dragon."

"Dragon!" Both Balin and Dori exclaimed.

"It is not the kind you are used to, of that I can assure you." He tried to amend, his voice forcibly trying to hush them.

"All dragons are evil, Master Baggins." Balin muttered. "With naught but greed in their hearts."

_Are we? Do both the Great Dragons and the Fire Drakes of the North share this?_ He wondered, looking up at the Dwarven king. "I'm…sorry, I shouldn't have tried to tell the tale."

"I'm curious, Master Boggins." Kili piped up from behind him. "Continue the story."

"Yeah," Fili added. "We're on a dragon quest, so we might as well learn about dragons! I want to hear a Hobbit story about the bloody firebreathers."

Dori looked like he wanted to knock them both upside the head. "Nonsense, we will leave the topics of dragons alone."

"What would a simple Hobbit know of dragons anyways?"

The five of them looked forward to see Thorin riding in close proximity to them. His cobalt eyes burned with challenge and Bilbo felt that dragon-pride rise to his throat. How insulting indeed! He knew quite a bit about dragons, thank you very much.

"Ooh, I beg your pardon, _Mountain King._ " Bilbo snapped. "What would a simple storyteller by trade know about dragons? Silly me."

Thorin huffed. His brow furrowing.

"Oh yes, did I forget to mention I'm a trained storyteller?" The Hobbit tilted his head back innocently, although his hazel eyes gleamed with a dragon's mischief. "Must've slipped my mind."

Balin chuckled, his brow lifted with amusement. Who would dare mock their king in such a way. As much as it insulted Thorin's Dwarrow pride, it was amusing to see a tiny Halfling give their king lib.

"Then Master Storyteller," Thorin growled through grit teeth. " _Do_ continue."

Bilbo snorted. _I'm definitely not going to subject myself to his Royal Broodiness._ Favíti _. He'll definitely have to be nicer._ "Mmm…I do believe I've actually forgotten the story by now…all this banter, it really did make it slip my mind. Perhaps another time?"

With that he spurred his pony forward, past the Dwarves and up to the side with Gandalf. The Wizard frowned at the Hobbit's very pleased smirk. Bilbo looked at him from under his thick eyelashes, his eyes darkening again with that impish dragon quality.

"I do believe you were right,Töframaður. This trip may be very beneficial for me after all."

Gandalf frowned. "I don't believe that is what I meant when I insisted you come."

"No, but that's what you got as an end result."

"Confound you dragons and your fickle moods."

"Confound you Wizards and your meddlesome plans. Too bad sticking your noses into everyone's business doesn't always get your desired result."

Bilbo tilted his head back, eyes shut as he soaked up the sun. His lips parted as a jeering laugh escaped his throat. "I think I will have fun on this little adventure after all."

"I'm sure you will." Gandalf grumbled, sticking his pipe in his mouth grumpily.

The rest of the journey for the day went relatively well. Thorin called for camp at abandoned ruins, which Bilbo did not like one bit. Even with his dulled senses, the whole place smelled rancid of troll. True, the scent was stale, but nevertheless the smell was only a week old. He made note of any suspicious looking imprints that may have been tracks. But nothing looked fresh. At least, from what he could tell. It'd been a while since he'd been hunting.

The moment he looked up, he noticed Gandalf storming off. Taking his hand off his pony's snout, he looked to the flustered Wizard. "Everything alright? Wait, where are you going?"

"To go seek the company of the only one around with a lick of sense." Gandalf growled.

Bilbo lifted a brow. _I'm right here._ "Oh, and who is that?"

"Myself!" the Wizard yelled, nearly jumping onto his horse and riding away.

"Well that was rude!" Bilbo shouted after the Wizard. _Helvitis_ _Töframaður_ _!_

Balin scratched the top of his head. "Thorin should really learn to be more diplomatic."

"If that's Erebor's delegation future, I cringe." Bilbo shivered.

"What was that, Master Burglar?" Thorin hissed, coming up from there side.

The Hobbit had already begun to walk away, sauntering to where Bombur and Bofur were beginning the makings of dinner. "Nothing, nothing."

"He's a bit rude." Balin observed.

The raven head stared at the Halfling. "I feel as though…never mind, a stupid matter. How long do you think it'll be before we reach the Misty Mountains?"

"A few days; at the most a week." The elder Dwarf said. "We're making good time."

"I thought as much." The king responded softly.

"We will reach it." Balin assured. "Don't you worry."

"Will all of us make it, though?"

"You're worried about the Hobbit."

"What? No. I merely made the speculation that we have three near-boys who have just barely reached their manhood. I worry for their safety."

Balin nodded. "Ori knew what he was getting himself into, Thorin. And Fili and Kili have been well trained by you. They also knew what would come of this journey. They did not shirk from it. I'm confident they will return with all the rest of us."

"Or else their mother would have my neck." Thorin murmured, his hand rubbing his throat subconsciously.

"Yes, that too."

**~0oo0~**

"Mm, dinner smells absolutely delicious." Bilbo admired, stepping closer to the pot.

Bofur grinned. "Aye, I'd 'spect so. Do me a favor and run these to the lads."

The floppy hatted Dwarf handed the Hobbit two bowl of soup. "You'll get yours when ya get back."

"Oh, I have to wait?" He whined with a playful wink.

Bofur flicked the laddle at him. "Get outta here!"

Bilbo chuckled and trotted over to where the ponies and Fili, and Kili were. He approached the two a little worried that they stood stock still. In the makeshift corrals, the creatures shuffled nervously. The smell of troll bombarded his nose, he wrinkled it in disgust. The scent was far fresher here than anywhere else in their camp. Is this what Gandalf and Thorin had gotten into a tiff over.

"What seems to be the problem, boys?" Bilbo asked cheerfully.

"We started off with fourteen ponies." Fili muttered.

Kili finished. "But now there are only twelve."

_Ooh, these two are in trouble._ Bilbo mentally cooed as the Dwarves escorted him to the fence.

"Yup, Minty and Bungo are both missing." Kili observed.

The Hobbit hummed. "Let's go get Thorin."

"No, no, no need to do that!" The brunette squeaked.

"Actually, we were think, Mister Boggins." Fili drawled out. "Since you're our burglar and all…"

He sighed. _Of course._ Looking at the tree, he decided to go with a witty response. "Well, judging by these tracks, it was something quite large…and possibly dangerous."

"That's what we were thinking." Kili nodded.

"Hm, of course you were."

The two continued to lead Bilbo, following the tracks. For a moment the Hobbit wondered why he was still carrying the soup bowls but quickly dismissed the idea. If these were indeed trolls, in this form he could do very little that would be helpful.

A dull throbbing light appeared in his line of vision. The two others caught sight of it too and they all quickly trundled over to it. Bilbo's breath stuck in his throat. Not only were they indeed trolls, but they were mountain trolls.

_Just my luck._ He grouched.

"Look!" Kili hissed. "They've got two more!"

"That's Myrtle and Daisy…" Bilbo identified.

"Right." Fili nodded, taking a bowl. "You hoot once like a barn owl,"

"And then hoot twice like a brown owl." Kili finished. "When you get them back. That's all no fancy business."

Bilbo's hazel eyes widened. "Wait—"

But the two young Dwarves had disappeared miraculously.

" _Fordæmdur Dvergarnir."_ He growled under his breath.

Marching forward, Bilbo pulled up the sleeves on his coat. If push came to shove, he did not want Bungo's favorite coat to get singed. He crept his way through the disgusting troll camp, bones and leaves crunching softly under his large feet. Thankfully though, the trolls were as deaf as they were stupid. So they didn't notice his presence.

He came up to the posts where the ponies were tied and looked at them calmly. They nickered in relief as they recognized him. Bilbo placed a finger to his lips, telling them to shush. The horses still skittered, but now they at least remained quiet. Biting his lip, he cursed himself for not bringing a blade of any kind.

Forcing himself to admit a bit of pain, he licked his tongue of the flatness of his teeth, forcing a bit of the magic concealing him to go away. His jaw began to expand a bit, earning a groan from his bones and a bit of a moan of pain from him. His mouth creaked slightly, reacting to the change immediately. When he ran his tongue over them again, he cut it on the sharpness of his fangs. Shifting to the rope, he placed a cord between his lips, and began to saw. He almost gagged at the oily stinky taste that the fibers bore.

_The things I do for you, Thorin._ He thought bitterly, moving to the next cord.

In no time at all, only one rope remained for him to chew through. The argument the troll were having caught little of his attention and he did his best to ignore them. Yet, he probably should've paid more mind to them than he did originally, because next moment he knew—he was in the hand of one, used as a handkerchief.

"Oh, foul!" He snapped, wiping the snot off of his coat and vest, his teeth reverting back to their normal Hobbit appearance.

"Oy! Look wha' came outta me hooter!" The troll squealed.

"Wha' es eit?" A mean looking troll growled.

"I'm a bur-dra-Hobbit. A Hobbit." Bilbo spluttered, some of the snot having gotten into his mouth.

"A burdrahobbit?" The third troll cooed. "Wha' es that? Can we eat it?"

"No, you can absolutely not eat me!" Bilbo growled, quite fed up with the imbeciles. "In fact, if you don't put me down this second, I'll lay a curse on the lot of you!"

"Yur bluffin'." The mean looking troll growled.

"Am I?" Bilbo arched his brow.

"'Haps ther're mer burdrahobbits runnin' 'bout." The snotty troll piped up.

"No, there are none like me 'round these parts." The hobbit snapped.

"He's makin' eit up." The foul-tempered one rumbled, picking up his knife. "I bet there's pleny of 'em."

"'Nough to make a pie!" The cook troll yammered.

"Hey, drop him!" came a loud shout.

The four of them looked down to see a very bold Kili baring his sword against the three trolls.

_Oh you stupid boy. Where's your brother?_ Bilbo facepalmed.

"I said, drop him." Kili growled with a sneer.

All havoc broke out as the other Dwarves of the company—Thorin included—rushed from the bushes, slashing at the monster's calves. Bilbo was thrown from the hand and into Kili. They both tumbled across the floor in a jittered heap.

"You never hooted, so we went and got help." He said with a smile. "Wait here, we'll take care of this."

Meanwhile, the ponies ran about, their hooves banging the ground. Bilbo sat down bored, resting his head against his palm. He would like to say hours went by before they ended up getting captured and sacked. The Dwarves honestly couldn't handle three little trolls? Oh, well…they'd used Ori as leverage so that might have been unfair play on their field, yet still. The Dwarves were being roasted and he'd tried stalling using parasites as excuses. That'd slowed the trolls down a bit but not enough, he glanced up sunlight barely streaming over the rock carapaces.

"I should probably end this." He muttered.

Moving forward, he walked into the stormy panic like a calm star. Thorin hissed at him to come back and the other Dwarves approached.

"They'll kill ya in a second!"

"Get back 'ere laddie, yer not really a traitor!"

"What are you doing?"

"Get back here, burglar!"

Bilbo ignored them all, his eyes timing the sun's rays perfectly.

"Trolls, are your heads too teeny tiny for your big fat bodies, or are your bodies too teeny tiny for your big fat heads?"

The Dwarves blanched and silenced as Bilbo's taunt rang through the camp. He smirked, his hazel eyes darkening. Oh, he'd miss this. Somehow that nightmare the other night had reawaken the powerful being that slumbered silently within him.

"Oy ya stinker!" The mean troll snarled, lunging forward.

At that moment two things happened.

Gandalf appeared—albeit ill timed—cracking the stones around the camp allowing the sunlight to flood through. And the second thing that happened was Bilbo opened his fire pit that remained dormant in his belly. Just like he had during the Fell Winter. He cursed the Wizard as the fire fled from his mouth and upon the changing trolls. The Dwarves shouted at the bright light, mistaking the fire for the brilliant light of the sun.

Immediately as he'd opened it, he cut his fire organ shut. The fire dropping from his mouth like saliva. Of course both that and blood followed the course. He looked up at Gandalf his eyes mocking.

"Bad timing, Töframaður." Bilbo hissed, blood slipping past his fingers that had moved to cover his mouth.

"You're the one who decided to use fire, Bilbo Baggins." Gandalf rumbled back.

The Hobbit sank to his knees, the world starting to spin. Gandalf cursed lunging forward to stop the little being from falling on his face. The Dwarves shouted in shock.

"I told you never to do that again! It saps too much of your strength maintain secrecy from any other dragon while using your power!" Gandalf whispered sharply.

"I know…" Bilbo cooed. "But I didn't think…I had a choice…"

"No, you simply did not think." Gandalf cut back, observing the Dwarves who were struggling to get free to help them. "Honestly, you'd do anything for the Dwarves."

"You came back…" Bilbo murmured after a pause.

"Of course I did you foolish dragon, keep your eyes open."

"I…want to winter sleep, Gandalf."

"None of that nonsense Bilbo."

"Too late."

The Hobbit closed his eyes, the world tilting in black…

…before his lids swiftly shot open, his face embraced by a swift pain of sharp coldness.


End file.
